Reveiller
by Merinna
Summary: A year after the fire, when the doors of the Opera House opened again, they only admitted three: a desperate woman and her pursuers. Now, Erik finds himself playing rescuer to a woman with as many secrets as him.
1. Into the Darkness

**This fanfic is set a year after the fire at the Opera Populaire. I don't own any of the characters except Remy and Leon. The rest belong to all those other brilliant people. I am basing this mostly on the movie (think Gerard Butler, not Lon Chaney). This is my first fanfic, but please don't click the back button on your browser until you have given it a chance. This is an OC pairing, because I think that given the circumstances that the Phantom placed Christine in, she wouldn't have gone back to him. I stand firm in that, so don't bother telling me that 'their love is the only true love in the world, and you're a horrible person to think otherwise'. Constructive criticism would be great, because I do think that I need it, but otherwise, desist from sending hate mail.**

I don't know why I ran into the Opera House that night. I don't even remember making a conscious decision to enter, only the feeling of utter desperation that flooded my very soul until I couldn't even see clearly, let alone think. I heard the footsteps rapidly approaching behind me, and knew I wouldn't last much longer racing through the streets. Maybe in the burned-out ruin of the Opera Populaire, I would have a chance at survival.

I saw blurred images of fallen statues fly by me as I raced along, and flew up what must have been a grand staircase in its time. My feet kicked up dust and ash, which in turn flew into my lungs, impairing my already ragged breathing. Before long, I found myself backstage, moving through a labyrinth of passages, still full of set pieces and props. When I no longer heard the footsteps behind me, I slowed to a walk, as the adrenaline abandoned my body, making my brain sluggish and my limbs ache.

Without warning, I felt the floor give out from under me and crumble into charred bits of wood and ash as I fell through.

'You're a stupid fool, Remy,' I cursed myself, as I landed hard on the ground, my legs crumpling under me. 'Now look at yourself.'

I had let my guard down, and ended up lying on the ground with my leg bent strangely beneath me. This would teach me a lesson, and I sincerely hoped that I would live long enough to use my new bit of wisdom. On the bright side, down here my pursuers would have more trouble finding me. On the down side, I had no idea where 'down here' was or how to leave, and my tired mind and body were quickly giving out.

I struggled to a sitting position, and leaned my head against the nearest wall, forcing myself to assess my injuries. There was a new pain in my left ankle that hadn't been there before, so it must have absorbed the greatest of the impact from my fall. My lungs hurt, and my mouth was dry, but those impairments weren't too serious. A little water would be nice, but my thirst was nothing life threatening. I reached my hand up to feel the side of my head, where one of Leon's men had struck me, and felt a warm liquid trickling down the side of my face.

'This could be a problem', I observed aloud, squinting as my hand, barely able to discern the dark stain of the blood in the unceasing darkness that surrounded me.

Fatigue was beginning to take its toll, and my eyes kept drifting out of focus as I looked for an exit. I couldn't make out a wall, let alone a door. My eyes drifted closed, and I remembered the last few weeks of terror. I wondered, if this kept up, might a person get used to being hunted? I had never thought, when I refused Leon's hand, that my pride would lead to this, sitting on the floor of what used to be an opera house, while cruel-faced men pursued me through the city.

My reverie was broken by the footsteps above me. I sat upright abruptly, forcing back a cry of pain as my tired muscles protested.

'They must not find me,' I repeated in my head as the pain subsided. 'I will not let him beat me.'

The dim light of a lantern shone through the hole in the floor, and I quickly moved my legs into the shadows.

"She's not down here," the voice directly above me proclaimed.

"Right, then, keep looking," another man replied. "Little whore must be around here somewhere."

"Madomoiselle Remy! We know you're here! Just come out, and we promise we won't hurt you."

Right, like that was going to persuade me. Might want to hire someone a little smarter next time you decide to chase down your would-be fiance, Leon.

"Shut up, you fool, she's not going to believe that."

No, really? I didn't think humans came that stupid. I almost betrayed myself by laughing.

After what seemed like an eternity, their footsteps faded away and the light from their lanterns receded, leaving me in total darkness once again.

I was about to breathe a sigh of relief when harsh reality hit me. I was trapped in the basement of an abandoned opera house, my empty stomach was growling forcefully, my lungs still cried out for water, and I was a bloody mess. I wasn't even sure if I could stand. For the first time in weeks, the first time since I had been driven from home, I started to cry. Not loudly, my sense of survival wouldn't allow me, but with the silent tears of complete desperation. My only comfort was that if I were to die now, Leon would never have the satisfaction of knowing that he had won.

I was so consumed with my bitter thoughts that I almost didn't hear the new set of footsteps approaching me from across the darkened room. I lifted my head and stilled my tears, straining my ears to figure out where they were coming from. These were not the footsteps of Leon's brutes; they were lighter and softer. My ears, used to listening for danger around me, only barely caught them.

"What are you doing here!"

The harshness and volume of the voice caught me off guard. I could hear the undiluted anger spilling off his words, and was more frightened than I had been when Leon caught me trying to leave.

"What do you mean by this intrusion? Explain yourself!"

It didn't seem to come from one direction; it seemed to be all around me, coming from many directions at once.

"Answer me, you little wretch!"

Even in my weakened stupor, I knew that this was a voice used to being obeyed, and I didn't think I should invite the ire of another dangerous man. I struggled to me feet, using the wall behind me for support, as I tried to speak. It was no use, and my traitorous lungs refused to oblige me. I couldn't even say my name, let alone give an explanation for my obviously unwanted presence. My legs threatened to give out from under me, and I wavered. I heard the footsteps move closer, until they were standing right in front of me. Even so close, all I could make out in the darkness was a dark form and glimmer of white around where the voice's head would be.

"Who are you?"

The voice was quieter this time, so close to my face I could almost feel warm breath. I tried to sputter out my name, but only managed to cough out a lung full of ash before my head started spinning and I crumpled at the shape's feet, and lapsed into complete oblivion.


	2. Waiting in the Shadows

**AN: Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed. I am sorry that my chapters are short, butI tend to think and write in short bursts, and I promise to update frequently. Also, you may notice once you start reading that I changed perspective; Remy is my character, soI pretty much know what she is thinking, but I did not want to take first-person liberties with Erik.**

**Chapter 2**

He knew that she was there the moment she entered the opera house. His opera house. A year had passed since they had tried to drive him out, yet he remained even when all else was in ruins. Painstakingly, he had restored his own lair, while above him the once grand building stood abandoned. He often thought with irony that his actions had caused the Opera Populaire to become more like himself: full of potential that would never be used, all because the exterior was so horrific.

The girl's sudden, desperate appearance both angered him and roused his curiosity. Who was she to intrude upon his precious solitude? Hadn't she been warned to stay away? The many homeless who roamed the Paris streets at night hadn't tried to colonize this building, as they did with so many others. The few gendarmes who had been brave enough to enter fled without so much as a rifle shot in his direction when they saw his dark form approach through the ash; and upon leaving spread rumors that helped discourage further visits. He was the Phantom of the Opera. No one disturbed him without paying a price.

Haunting the rafters above the stage, he watched her run towards the dressing rooms with a limp that looked quite painful. He also noted the two large men who followed her through the doors, armed with knives and looking murderous. He disinterestedly wondered what the girl had done to have two such ruffians hunting her. Moving silently through the balcony level of the former backstage, he watched her slow her pace and listen for footsteps. From his vantage point above her, he could tell that she had been brawling with someone, and losing miserably. Her hair was chopped short and hung around her neck. Her clothing, men's breeches and a loose shirt, were tattered and dirty. In the darkness, he couldn't tell if the darkness on her face was dirt or blood, but he was willing to guess a little of each. Parts of her face appeared to be swelling, and a jagged scar ran across one cheek.

Apparently, she wasn't paying much attention to where she was going, as she took a wrong step and plunged through the weakened floorboards to the level below. He jumped lightly to the floor, searching for the trapdoor that would take him to the lower level without following her through the gaping hole. He quickly found what he was looking for, and as he disappeared into the trapdoor, he heard the voices of the two buffoons, calling for the girl, shining their lanterns into the dark corners to find her.

He climbed quickly down the short ladder, and stood facing her. She was unaware of his presence, unable to see him in the almost complete blackness that had swallowed her. Used to the darkness, he saw her eyes drooping closed, then flickering open again as she battled her fatigue. A few silent tears dropped down her face, as she rested her head against the wall.

Suddenly, she sat up, alert. She had heard his footsteps. Now was the time to speak.

"What are you doing here!"

Her eyes opened wide, staring into the darkness, trying to find his voice.

"What do you mean by this intrusion? Explain yourself!"

He could see her open her mouth and try to speak, but no sound emerged.

"Answer me, you little wretch!"

She was struggling to her feet now, barely able to stand, looking like pure fear was the only thing supporting her. He moved closer, till he was standing just before her, at a near enough distance that he could make out the expression in her eyes, the desperate courage of a cornered animal who knows that its time has come and yet refuses to give in to death.

"Who are you?"

He uttered, inches from her face, close enough to hear her heart, beating faster than it should. Without a word, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she dropped to his feet.

He stood still for a few moments, looking at her dark form on the ground. A thousand thoughts seemed to fly through his mind at once, one side of him telling him that he ought to help her, the other resisting, urging him to just leave. Surely, he didn't want this annoyance, this unasked-for burden. He owed nothing to anyone. No one had ever shown him kindness, why should he bother with her? She was practically dead when he found her anyway.

He started to walk away when he heard the pair of men returning, impatience and anger obvious in their step.

"You little witch! Once we find you, you'll burn! Hear me? Burn like the monster you are!"

That was enough to make up his mind. He gathered her into his arms and lifted her, feeling the sharpness of her bones in her too-thin body, and the unnatural coldness of her face against his neck. If she was going to die, he wouldn't let these two creatures take any pleasure from it.

'Witch', they had called her. 'Monster'. That was when he noticed the brand on her right forearm.


	3. Nightmare

**I love reviews; they are like food for the soul. Anyone who wants faster updates should send me a review, because reading them always inspires me to keep writing.I will eventually explainRemy's past in greater detail, but here's a little taste of what is to come.**

_I saw myself, standing in that beautiful parlor again, holding that horrible bottle in my hand. I could see my dream self's hands shaking, her face… my face, contorted and streaming with tears._

"_What is this!" I/she demanded, waving it in Leon's face, as he stood there grinning that lazy, charming grin of his, completely unaffected by my anger._

_"Don't be stupid, my dear Remy. You know very well what that is. That is the blessed drink that bought my financial independence, and your right to marry me."_

_"This is poison, you madman! What in God's name has possessed you?"_

_He reached his hand out, and I frantically screamed to my dream self to throw the bottle in his face and run, while she still could. Unfortunately, she seemed determined to do exactly as I had done, and continued to stand there, crying like a complete idiot. Leon removed the bottle from her/my hand and kept speaking, his calm tone defying the insanity of his words._

_"You know my parents would never have let me marry you while they lived, not with your parentage so uncertain; they would have withheld my fortune from me. They were taking too long to die, so I simply encouraged the inevitable"_

_I backed away, shaking._

_"Did you honestly think that I would marry you once I knew?"_

_"I wasn't planning on you finding out. It is simply an unfortunate chance that you stumbled upon it. It changes nothing."_

_"It changes everything! I am leaving, and I am going to the police."_

_Oh God, Remy, why did you have to say that?_

_"You aren't going anywhere!"_

_He roughly seized my arm, and pulled me close to him._

_"Do you really think that they will believe you?" He whispered in my ear. "I could just tell them that you did it. That you were so desperate to marry me you killed my parents, knowing that they would not have allowed it. Who will they believe? The most influential noblemen in this county, or the bastard child of a gypsy dancing girl? You have no proof, just your word against mine."_

_I saw myself struggling to get free, away from the harshness of his voice and the strength of his grasp. I saw myself reaching for the letter opener on the desk. I saw myself strike out with it, the metal of the dull blade flashing in the bright sunlight. Then I heard him muffle a cry, as blood dripped down his cheek from the freshly opened wound. He released my arm, and I ran. _

_A mere two steps from where I started, he caught me again, and threw me against the wall. He held my throat in one hand, and the letter opener in the other. He laughed low in his throat, his eyes lit with insanity and rage._

_"Now Remy, that was hardly civilized. How far did you think you were going to get? Where would you have gone? Every man in this town owes something to my family. The police, the courts, the church; I control everything here, and in the next town, and in the next. There is nowhere that you can go."_

_I tried to pull away, and sobbed when I could not._

_Damn you and your weakness Remy. You could have fought harder. You could have run faster. You could have killed him with that blade. Instead, you cried like a little girl._

_"Please, Leon, You know this is wrong. Let me go."_

_Oh, I'm sure that the man who killed his parents is going to listen to your pleading. Brilliant idea, trying to reason with the crazy man._

_"Oh, don't worry Remy, I'm not going to make you marry me. Not after this. What a disgrace that would be!" _

_He smiled at me, then turned over his shoulder and called frantically for a servant. Then he raised the letter opener, and slashed his own arm with it, creating a new wound._

_"Dear God, what has happened?" His butler demanded, eyes widening with shock as he rushed into the room._

_"The woman is crazy! She came to me with this bottle, and told me that she had finally found a way for us to be married!" He cried, as I realized that I had conveniently left my fingerprints all over the bottle. "When I tried to call for the police, she went crazy and attacked me!"_

_"No!" I shouted, "That's not true, he's lying!"_

_Of course. His butler will surely believe that._

"_Quick, fetch me some rope, and get someone to bring the gendarmes!"_

_Together, they tied my hands behind my back, as I sobbed and pleaded, trying to explain, but unable to put together a single coherent sentence. Meanwhile, Leon explained the details of my attack. When the gendarmes arrived, they pulled me to my feet and gagged me to silence me, and Leon told them his story. When he finished, he glanced at my face, and his eyes lit up as though he had been struck by a singularly brilliant idea._

"_You ought to be careful, and call for a priest," he told one of the gendarmes. "She was unnaturally strong. I suspect she has been practicing witchcraft."_

_I screamed with rage as I watched my dream self attempt to cry out, attempt to struggle, and fail at both. I tried to fight the officers who led her away, beating at them with my fists, but the dream continued exactly as it had in real life, despite my desperate attempts to change it._

I was still screaming and fighting when I awoke, the sheets around tangling around me like the ropes I had been bound with. When I realized that I was, in fact, not tied up and not being attacked, I stopped struggling, and looked around me. Then I panicked again.

I did not recognize my surroundings, and had no idea where I was or how I had gotten there. I was lying on a soft velvet-covered bed, shaped like a swan and painted gold. Around me hung gauzy black curtains, through which I could make out the glow of candles. Through my waking haze, I could hear the strange sound of organ music.

My first thought was that I had died, and my body was lying forgotten in the cellars of an abandoned Opera house, while my soul had been transported to Heaven. The dull pain that pervaded my body when I tried to move quickly convinced me otherwise. I reached up to touch my face, and found that the grime of the previous weeks had been washed away, though my head was still tender where I had been hit.

I ignored the pain in my muscles as I struggled to sit up, and swung me legs over the side of the bed. I pushed myself to a standing position, and my vision temporarily went white with pain, then dark as the blood rushed to my head. I wobbled on my feet, and used a table to steady myself, before cautiously making my way to the curtain, and lifting it.

**A gendarme is a French police officer. Just in case you were wondering.**


	4. Through the Curtain

**A/N: Remember, the more you review, the more I will write.**

Where I come from, opera houses didn't have lairs beneath them. Actually, we didn't really have opera houses where I come from. We did have plenty of caves, and even underground lakes, but none of them ever looked like this. As I looked around, I was again forced to wonder if this was a delusion.

Hundreds of candles illuminated a giant cavern. Below me was the glistening smooth water of a lake, and walls of natural stone surrounded me. Other than that, I could have been standing in a normal home, albeit one belonging to a rather eccentric decorator. In my fatigue-induced haze, I found it hard to pinpoint details that would give me a clue as to the identity of my rescuer, but my eye was quickly drawn to the center of the cave, where a large organ stood surrounded by candles, looking for all the world like an altar to some pagan god of music.

In the dim lighting, I didn't notice at first the dark figure seated at the instrument. He was sitting so still that for a moment I wondered if he was awake, or even alive, but after a few moments, he stirred, and appeared to be writing something. Then the organ came alive with music. Now, I had always considered my education in music to be quite formidable, but I had never heard anything like this. Not in the gypsy camp I was born in, not in the wealthy home I was raised in. Music was something that you danced to, or sang to, or played to impress callers, but this was different. Even half-conscious, it made me want to cry, listening to the raw emotion it seemed to contain. I felt drawn towards it, as though it had taken hold of my very soul. I started to stumble my way down the stairs, and realized too late that my traitorous legs would not support me. They slipped out from under me, and I collapsed onto the floor below me, fresh pain shooting through me where there had only been dull throbbing before. The music stopped as its creator turned toward me, and the spell was broken.

* * *

He had started playing to drown out the terrified noises the girl made as she slept When he picked her up and carried her, she had been completely limp, and when he laid her on his bed, he feared momentarily that she was dead. A quick check of her pulse reassured him that she was not. He told himself that he was only worried because he had gone through so much trouble to bring her here, and would hate to have to dispose of her body. He would never have admitted to himself that he truly wanted her to recover. He wanted to know why she was here, who was pursuing her, and why her forearm was branded with the shape of a cross. 

While he cleaned the wounds on her face, and coaxed water and a pain-reliever down her throat, she had lain quietly, but as soon as he reached to touch her arm, she had begun to fight him, as much as her feeble body was able. She wouldn't have been able to hurt him in her weakened condition, but he feared that if she had internal injuries, she might worsen them in her mad struggle to escape whatever nightmares his touch had induced.

It seemed that the blood on her shirt was mostly old anyway, and she wasn't bleeding except from her head wound, which he had already bandaged, so she would probably be alright. For a while, he just paced about his home, wondering who this girl was, that she had been beaten and branded. She seemed harmless enough. He also did not fail to note, with some irony and much self-loathing, that she was not the first woman he had inspired with such terror, though most of the others had waited at least until they were conscious. Despite his attempts to reason with himself, that her cries were the result of past experience, not his presence, the thought preyed upon his mind until he could no longer stand the sound of her unconscious battle.

That was when he started to play. The music started out as a few desperate notes, with no harmony or thought, just meaningless noise. Then the desperation started to melt away, and his mind began to work, his fingers following the tune played by his emotions. Anger, sorrow, fear, love, hate, and a myriad of others began to show themselves. He felt as though he had been set free. For a year, he had played funeral dirges, or nothing at all. He hadn't even bothered to compose since the disastrous performance of his first and only opera, the product of years of labor, Don Juan Triumphant. He stopped for a short while to find a pen and paper, then began to play again, taking breaks every few minutes to make a new notation. He continued like this for hours, unaware of the passing time.

Suddenly, a loud thump followed by a low moan broke his reverie, and he whirled around to see the girl sitting crumpled on the ground next to the short flight of stairs, her face white and her eyes closed.


	5. An Offered Hand

**A/N: I already have the next two chapters wrtten, but I will be holding them until I get enough reviews to satisfy my ego. So, if you want a quick update, write a quick review : )**

I was thoroughly ashamed of myself. I couldn't even stand up on my own, let alone fight or escape if my rescuer turned out to be simply another chapter in the horror novel that my life had become. As the man rushed over to assist me, I wanted badly to apologize for the inconvenience I had caused him, but I could not bring myself to break the silence. He reached his hand out to me, and I took it, looking at his face for the first time as he helped me to stand.

Even in my dazed condition, I could tell he was handsome. His light eyes contrased nicely with the gold of his skin and his dark hair. He was dressed to perfection in a black evening suit, the absolute picture of a gentleman. The only deviation from that image was the white mask that covered half of his face. He pulled me gently to my feet, and kept a steadying hand on his arm as I struggled to remain standing. I dropped my eyes to my feet, realizing that a man living in a cave might take issue with my rude stare. The last thing I wanted to do was offend him.

"May I help you to a chair?"

His voice was much gentler than I remembered, and I was struck by his cultured tone, and the oddity of such well-mannered words in such an uncomfortable situation. In fact, I was so startled that I began to laugh. That was when I knew he must have given me some very strong medication, which was affecting my brain. It is never a good idea to laugh at a stranger, especially one who stands between you and falling into a lake. Especially one who wears a mask and lives in a cave. After hacking out a laugh, I composed myself, and looked at his face again, hoping that he had mistaken the noise for a cough, or some other completely involuntary noise. It appeared he had understood me quite well, judging by the hurt and slightly baffled expression the uncovered side of his face wore.

"Please...I didn't mean...I wasn't..it's just.."

Apparently, I was not yet capable of coherent thought yet. With any luck at all, he would understand that I had meant no offense, and wouldn't kill me.

"Of course. You are still very weak, and I imagine quite hungry. Please, sit."

With that, he slowly led me to a chair, and helped me to sit down. He didn't seem to require an further explanation, for which I was grateful.

When he placed a small loaf of bread and some cheese in front of me, all thoughts of fear, gratitude and manners flew out of my mind. He was right, I was starving. I couldn't even recall the last time that I had eaten a full meal, and tore into this one with a ferocity that I never knew I possessed. The man didn't seem to notice my complete lack of manners and dignity, and he proceeded to ignore me, or at least pretend to, turning his back to me.

When I was done, I folded my hands in my lap, and looked up at him. Whatever he had given me was wearing off, and the silence was becoming more and more uncomfortable. I desperately wanted him to say something, if only to shake off the feeling that I was completely alone.

"Thank you" I whispered, watching him for any sign of emotion.

"You're welcome."

He didn't seem to want to look at me, and kept his eyes averted.

"Not just for the food, you know.'

Still, he didn't turn around. I placed my palms on the table, using it to push myself to a standing position. I realized as fresh pain shot through my legs that this particular movement was simply the latest in a long line of stupid mistakes. I grimaced, but avoided crying out this time; a small victory over my pain. He had turned around as I stood, and hesitantly took a step towards me. I straightened, trying to look him in the eye while avoiding staring at his mask.

"I owe you my life."

"It was nothing."

"I disagree."

He closed his eyes briefly, as if pained by something, then opened them and locked them on mine.

"You still have wounds that I was..unable to care for while you were sleeping. Perhaps I ought to take care of them now."

He seemed embarassed by the thought, and I realized that he probably did not want to do anymore washing and bandaging.

"You needn't worry about me; I can manage by myself. I just need water and some bandages."

I could see the hesitancy in his eyes, and gave him a small smile to reasure him.

"Really, you have done so much for me already, I cannot ask any more of you. I will be fine."

"As you wish."

Again, he offered me his arm, and gently helped me back up the stairs to the room I had woken up in. He helped me sit down, then left without a word. Aqain I took the opportunity to examine the contents of the chamber, noting the shattered mirror on one side of me, and a tall bookshelf on the other. Before I knew it, he had returned, carrying a pitcher of water which he placed on the washstand. He also handed me a bundle of fabric, which I took gratefully.

"I believe you will find everything you require there. I am going to see if I can find you some more suitable clothing. I will return shortly."

With that, he turned to walk away, pushing the curtain out of his way.

"Wait!"

He turned around abruptly with a questioning gaze. I had to know who he was, why he had helped me, but I couldn't think of what to say.

"I'm Remy...that's my name. Remy Neuvillette."

Again, I watched his expression change to something like regret, and he replied with a single word.

"Erik."

And then he was gone.

**A/N: For all the astute literary types, yes I did steal her last name from Christian de Neuvillette of the fantastic play Cyrano de Bergerac. **


	6. Broken Soul

He wasn't supposed to feel anything; not pity, not compassion, nothing! Why had he bothered with that girl? All she would do is cause him pain. She was grateful now, while she was dependent on his goodwill, but if she knew what he was, what he had done, what his face truly looked like...she would hate him. The pain and bitterness that dwelled deep inside of him should have prevented him from helping her, stopped him while he still had a choice. He had pitied her. Why? The world had never bothered to pity him; why should he help someone who would revile him when given the chance?

But perhaps the world had treated her the way it had treated him. She looked so desperate and hunted, she must be an outcast, like him. Perhaps she could understand him, as no one ever had before. Perhaps by helping her, he could redeem himself. He despaired when she fought him as he tried to help her, even knowing that she did not do so consciously. His hopes had lifted when she accepted his hand, then were crushed again when she laughed at him, then raised once more when she thanked him so graciously for his help.

He didn't feel any particular attraction to her, and he certainly did not call his emotions love. Rather, everything about her stirred a deep sense of pity and responsibility. She was not young; the thin lines around her eyes confirmed that, and her face looked as though it had simply grown used to suffering. Her eyes, bright blue against the dark circles beneath them, seemed hardened by life. Even when she smiled at him, she looked sad and haunted. He liked to think that she reminded him of himself, a victim of her circumstances.

What he didn't want to think about, couldn't think about, was that she also could have been his victim, that he was the sort of person who could treat someone the way she had been treated. He knew, though he wouldn't admit to himself, that he possessed the darkness required to break someone, body and soul. He had killed before, once in self-defense, twice for a combination of convenience and pleasure. He would have killed for the emotion he thought was love, if the pleading eyes of his angel hadn't stopped him. But he couldn't think of that, couldn't face that now.

* * *

After he left, I unwrapped the bundle, and discovered several bandage, and a black velvet robe. I removed my worn boots, which were several sizes too large and currently had rags stuffed in the toes, then slowly reached up and pulled my tattered shirt over my head. Resting my weight on my uninjured right foot, I stood, and let my breeches drop down to my ankles. I sat back down onto the bed, and sponged myself off, reveling in the feel of cool water and cleanliness. With much difficulty, I bent my head over the wash bowl, and poured the last of the water on my tangled hair. When I was finally done, my skin was completely chilled, but I felt better than I had in weeks. I reached down to inspect my ankle, and gently feeling the bone, discovered with much gratification that it was not broken. I slipped on the robe, and glanced once more around the small room, this time catching a glimpse of myself in the shattered glass of the mirror. I inched my way over to it. 

I hardly even recognized myself, so different were my face and body. My hair, chopped short by my prison guards, hung raggedly around my ears, dripping wet. My face had always been thin, but now, in the flickering candlelight, I saw shadows in the hollows of my cheeks, and under my eyes. A jagged scar across my cheekbone stood against the deathly pallor of my skin. I had always considered myself pretty, despite my rapidly advancing age, but now I looked like a wet starved dog.

Slipping the robe off of my shoulders, I inspected the rest of my body. Some of the old bruises had faded, but there were fresh ones along my arms, down my ribs, and on my neck. One faint red line from a guard's knife ran down the length of my collarbone, and a fresher one that miraculously had not become infected cut across my stomach. The gash on my temple, from being knocked onto a cobblestone street, was already bandaged, but I could make out swelling underneath the gauze that Erik must have wrapped it in. I didn't have the courage to turn around and look at the scars that I knew must crisscross my back from numerous beatings, so I pulled the robe back on, and contemplated my situation as I bandaged my sprained ankle.

Erik. It seemed like a normal enough name, even if the man who bore it lived in a cave and wore a mask. I wondered what he was hiding. It hardly seemed like a man, with as handsome a face as the revealed half of his, could be hiding something terrible on the other side. But if it wasn't something terrible, then why would he be living here?

I began studying the bookshelf for some clue as to his identity, and only found more to confuse me. Some of the titles were in French, but there were many others in German, English, and other foreign languages that I could not identify. Of the ones I could read, the subjects included science, art, architecture, music, even magic tricks. They all appeared much worn and used, and when I pulled out one of the many manuscripts pertaining to music, I saw notes scribbled in the margins. Whoever Erik was, he certainly had a broad education.

My perusal of his books was interrupted by the sound of his feet coming up the stone steps. I heard him hesitate before turning the corner, as if unsure of his right to enter.

"May I come in?" He called, his voice low and his words strangely comforting, reassuring me that even in a cave, civility existed.

"Of course."

He lifted the curtain and stood before me, holding out a chemise, blouse, and skirt.

"Wherever did you find these?"

I doubted that he kept them lying around for the sake of female visitors who happened to have need of them.

"The costume department of the opera house was not harmed in the fire, and I have found the costumes are very well preserved."

Well, that was a novel way of dressing oneself.

Once he left, I pulled on the clothing, basking in the feel of clean cloth against my skin. The skirt was a bit large, but I was not in a position to complain. I found he had also left a comb on the table near the wash bin, so I brushed what little was left of my hair, and tied it back from my face with a small piece of cotton torn from one of the bandages.

Now that I once again felt more or less human, I was ready to face my masked rescuer.


	7. Two Kinds of Monster

**A/N: Thank you to Fox of the Nova who manages to write a review for every chapter I post, and to everyone else who keeps giving me positive feedback. It really makes my day. It also unfortunately makes me neglect my homework in order to write updates, but since I've finally reached second semester of senior year, I'm not too worried. ****Don't worry, Lady Nessa– Remy has too strong a survival instinct to do something that stupid, but the mask will be coming off soon..very soon. And now, the longest chapter I have written yet, hope you enjoy!**

* * *

This time I limped down the steps, I managed to remain upright, a feat I was quite proud of. Erik was once again sitting at his organ, scribbling on a sheet of paper. There was no music this time, and all I could hear was the scratching of his pen on the paper. Everything else was silence, so thick I felt I was wading through it. He didn't seem to hear my bare feet as I padded down the stairs, and towards him. I stopped a few feet away, not wishing to startle him, and cleared my throat. He glanced up at me, and I could have sworn I saw a hint of a smile. Or it was a trick of the candlelight, and I was simply imagining things.

"You are feeling better, I trust?"

"I am, thank you."

He rose from his bench and held out a black-gloved hand, which I took. He led me to a chair, and pulled it out for me, as I silently marveled at his impeccable manners. My etiquette teacher would have loved him. After I was seated comfortably at the table, he placed some fruit and water before me, and silently went back to his organ. Apparently he meant to leave me here in silence, something I felt I could not bear.

"So...you live here"

I mentally kicked myself. Of course he lived here, why else would he have brought me here?

"I do."

Thankfully, he did not seem annoyed by my question. I tried again.

"If I may ask, why is it that the opera house remains empty? I would think a valuable piece of property such as this one would find many buyers willing to restore it."

My question caught his attention, and he turned to me with a sarcastic smile.

"Did you not hear the stories?"

"Where I am from, in Alsace, we do not get much news from Paris."

He got up and walked towards me slowly.

"They say that there is a monster who haunts the opera house, who hides in the darkness, who cannot be seen but is always there..." He circled around me as he spoke, then drew away, his back towards me. His posture was tense, and he walked stiffly, as though filled with some kind of pain. "Who kills for the fun of it, who is so horribly ugly that no one can look upon him without screaming and fainting, who started the fire that destroyed the opera house, and who remains here still, killing anyone who dares disturb him."

I don't know what stupidity possessed me to say what I said next.

"But you live here. Surely you would have seen this monster if he existed?"

He turned quickly toward me, disbelief written on his face. I realized my mistake as soon as Ispoke, and dropped my eyes as I felt my face turning red with embarrassment.

"Oh...I see. They think..."

He moved swiftly toward me, until he was standing directly in front of me, and crouched down so that his eyes were level with mine. I still did not look at him.

"No, Mademoiselle Neuvillette..." This was the voice I had heard in the basement before I fainted, cold and quiet. "They _know_ that I am that monster."

Something in his voice, a deep pain beneath the chill, tore at my heart, and I could not help but pity this man, even as he threatened me with the closeness of his presence. What had he done to deserve this life, so alone and so silent? I met his eyes with mine, pleading him to accept my pity.

"And yet you saved my life."

He straightened, and stalked away.

"Now, if you are done with your prying, I have some questions of my own."

"Ask what you like."

"Why are you here?"

"Because you brought me here." Probably not a good idea to make him angry, just in case he regretted saving me and decided to remedy the situation. "I was running from someone, and the opera house seemed like a good place to hide."

"From whom were you running?"

I wondered how much I would have to tell him before he was satisfied. I owed him my life, the least I could do was tell him the truth. I took a deep breath to steady myself before I began.

* * *

He had tried to maintain his calm demeanor, but when she appeared before him, he was struck by her appearance. She wasn't beautiful, not with her ragged hair and her clothing hanging off her starved frame, but she stood as tall as if she were dressed in silk. Her chin tilted slightly upward when he glanced at her, as she smiled in his direction, and the candlelight emphasized her the sharp slant of her cheekbones. She had taken his hand like instinctively, as though she was used to being offered gentlemanly gestures like that. He wasn't sure if he was attracted to the light of her smile, intimidated by her regal bearing, or angered by her audacity in looking at home in such an odd situation.

He remained silent because he wasn't sure what he could possibly say to her. He had thought she would be frightened by him once her initial shock wore off, but she had seemed so very comfortable in his presence that he felt a twisted desire to frighten her. When she had asked about the opera house, he had his opportunity. Then, she didn't pick up his very obvious hints about his identity. For some reason, it had not occurred to her that he was the monster, and her innocence had angered him, even as his traitorous thoughts told him that he should be gratified that she had not made the connection.

When she had responded to his intimidation attempts with complete calm, and looked straight into his eyes, he wondered briefly if perhaps he ought to just remove his mask and send her running on her way, so that he would have his solitude once more. He dismissedthe thought quickly, knowing that he couldn't send her back to whatever she had been running from. He struggled to resume his cool facade, not wanting to let her see any of the emotions running across his face.

He decided to take this opportunity to satisfy his own curiosity, and asked her why she was here. Her first response dripped with sarcasm, but she seemed to remember her manners and modified her answer, though she appeared not to want to talk about herself. When he asked her who she was running from, a flash of pain ran through her eyes, and she breathed heavily, as though steeling herself for some great ordeal.

"I was running from my fiance."

He hadn't been expecting that. She kept her eyes on the floor, unwilling to meet his.

"Well, not him directly. I mean, he wasn't chasing me himself, he got the gendarmes to do it... and the men he hired, obviously... it is a little complicated."

She trailed off, not sure of how much he would want to hear. He kept his eyes firmly on her face, silently asking her to explain. When she spoke again, her voice was flat, as though she had run out of emotion and was telling a story about someone else.

"The man I was engaged to, Leon Villeforte, was the only son of the oldest noble family in Alsace. The most powerful as well. He and I became engaged secretly, because his parents would not have approved of the match; my blood was not as noble as his in their eyes. I wanted to be married quickly, and didn't fancy waiting until his parents died to do so. I told him that if he loved me, he would risk his parents' disapproval and marry me without waiting for their consent. He didn't want to be cut off without their money, so he found another way."

He realized that her hands were shaking slightly.

"He poisoned them, I'm not sure with what. When I found the bottle of poison he had used, he admitted everything to me, then called thegendarmes and told them I hadkilled his parents and attacked him. Then he told them that he suspected me of practicing witchcraft. He had me thrown in jail, where I was put on trial. He bribed the officers who had arrested me to testify that my strength was unnatural. When the parish priest refused to find fault with me, Leon had him removed from his position, and payed a bishop who had been friends with his parents to testify that I was a witch."

Her voice shook as her narrative continued, and he could see anger building inside of her, until it seemed to light her from within, like a flame burning beneath her pale skin. Her pale eyes met his, and he could see a coldness there that mirrored his own, the kind of coldness that comes from cruel treatment .

"They branded me with this – " here she pulled back the sleeve of her blouse, allowing the cross shaped scar to show, "and condemned me to death."

"Why?"

Her voiced turned sarcastic. "Why do you think? Because he was greedy and insane, and I was the perfect scapegoat for his crime. Because he knew that no one would have believed me over him." Her voice increased in intensitywith every word. "He was right, you know. My own grandfather refused to take my side, refused to find me a lawyer. He came to visit me once, to tell me that I had disgraced him, and that my disgrace was God punishing him for adopting me!"

The words seemed to spill out of her now, venomous and wrathful, and she spit out the word 'grandfather' as if it were a horrible curse.

"I managed to escape, and came here. That was three weeks ago."

When she was done, the hate that had given her energy to speak left her body, and she dropped her eyes once more, and sunk back into her chair. He wanted to know more; how she had escaped, why she had come to Paris, and most importantly, who she was. It struck him as odd, the way she referred to no family but a grandfather, and her cryptic comments about not being as noble as her fiancé. He decided, though that any further questioning ought to be saved for another time, as she seemed not to have any strength left in her.

* * *

**A/N: Alsace is a region in the Northeast of France, which I chose because it is relatively isolated, relatively far from Paris, and my Mom's family is actually from there. Brownie points to whoever can guess from what French book I stole Leon's last name from. I'll give you a hint: Jim Caviezel was in the movie.**


	8. Music in the Night

**A/N: Brownie points and applause to aranel abeille and Black Dagger who knew where I got the name from. Villeforte is the last name of one of the bad guys in Count of Monte Cristo. I am really bad at thinking up original names, so I steal them whenever I can. Speaking of names, I actually need one for an upcoming character. If anyone can think of a good male gypsy-sounding name, let me know.**

"Monsieur Villeforte, we're sure that she's dead. We had all the exits watched, she couldn't have escaped."

"And she couldn't have survived in there for long. She was already weak."

The two men stood before the table, nervously twisting their caps in their hands, awaiting their employer's agreement. Leon Villeforte stood up, clasping his arms behind his back, and lazily strode over to them, a hint of a smile playing over his lips.

"So, you think that she is dead?"

One of the men glanced quickly at his partner, then back again.

"Yes, sir."

Leon began to circle the two men like a predator about to close in for the kill.

"Because you didn't see her leave?"

"Yes, sir."

He stopped directly in front of the two, looking from one set of eyes to the other.

"And it slipped your mind that she is a crafty little witch?"

"Sir?"

In the blink of an eye, his demeanor changed, as he flew at them waving a pearl-handled gentleman's revolver in their faces, his eyes blazing with a hellish light.

"A witch, you fools! A bride of Satan himself! A murderous wench who needs to be put down like the rabid dog she is! Thinking that she is dead does not satisfy me; you will return to the opera house, with all your men, and search every pile of rubble until you find her. Then, you will bring her kill her, and bring her body back to me."

The fire died, and he returned to his normal posture. He put his revolver back into his holster, and returned to his seat, flinging his legs lazily onto the table.

"I hope I have made my wishes clear."

"Yes, sir." they answered simultaneously, rushing out of the room.

As I lay in bed trying to sleep, I couldn't stop thinking about my conversation with Erik. Never before had I been given the opportunity to tell anyone what I had been through, and my own emotion surprised me. I had always prided me on having a certain amount of restraint, and had never been one to confide my problems in people. For three weeks, I had forced myself not to think about anything but survival. With all the energy I expended to keep myself alive and on the move, I had not been able to contemplate the events that had led to my hasty departure from home.

But somehow, when Erik had asked me why I was there, it all came rushing back to me; the fear, the degradation, the pain of being beaten like a dog and rejected by my only living relative. I couldn't stop my hands from shaking, and as I talked I felt hot tears rushing to my eyes, and rage seeping into my voice. There was so much I wanted to say, wanted to scream about, cry about, but I restrained my urge to jump from my seat and storm around Erik's home like a mad woman. I contented myself with squeezing my hands into fists, my nails leaving red marks in my palms.

I tried to restrain myself, telling Erik only the bare minimum of my story, sure that if I gave into my urge to collapse emotionally, I would not be able to recover my composure. For the most part, I had succeeded, but I could not help but add the sad fact of my grandfather's abandonment. This final betrayal had almost killed me when it happened, and even telling it sapped me of any strength I had left.

For his part, Erik seemed not to react at all to my story, and when I was finished, he had calmly suggested that perhaps I was overtired and needed to sleep. After helping me to the room I now had begun to think of as my own, he disappeared into the gloom, and I was left alone with my thoughts. I wondered if perhaps he had been unmoved because he had suffered worse than I had. If indeed his mask covered something horrible, and wasn't merely an eccentricity, I could not even imagine how the world must have treated him.

The more time I spent in his presence, the more I doubted that his mask was the whim of a brilliant mind. I couldn't stand to look in his eyes for more than a moment, so much did the sadness there pervade my very soul. He walked as though he carried a great burden on his broad shoulders, and even when he tried to disguise his despair with anger, I could sense it there, hidden behind the coldness in his eyes. I had always prided myself on my ability to read people's emotions, but this man confused me more than I had ever thought possible. In any case, living here below ground certainly wasn't helping my clarity of perception, and I doubted that it had a positive effect on Erik's mind.

The darkness enveloped me like a thick blanket, smothering my senses. I was indeed very tired, but I could not bring myself to close my eyes, fearing what awaited me should sleep claim me. When I was a little girl, I used to get horrible, vivid nightmares that would leave me screaming in my sleep, and stay with me for days. My mother's voice was the only thing that had ever helped soothe me. As I grew older, and moved away from the camp, the dreams stopped. Now, starting with my first night in my dank jail cell, I had not been able to escape the terror that my overactive subconscious imposed upon my sleep. The dreams were more frightening now, because they were not so much nightmares as memories that played over and over again in my mind.

Now, feeling safer than I had since my ordeal began, sleep still would not come. With no clock, I had no way of knowing how long I lay there, perfectly still, trying to concentrate on my breathing so as not to let my mind wander to anything unpleasant. I began to think that I would go mad, when I heard the music again.

It was softer this time, as though he did not want to wake me, and the melody was haunting. It seemed slightly familiar, as though I had heard it in a past life. It soothed me, filling my mind and chasing away lingering nightmares. Closing my eyes, I realized what it reminded me of: the gypsy camp. This was my mother's kind of music, soft and low but full of life. I could almost hear her voice, the songs she used to sing to me, and see the shadows she cast on the tent walls as the glow of the campfire played behind her whirling form. My mind filled with pleasant memories of the life I had known so long ago, and finally, sleep claimed me.


	9. Smoke and Mirrors

**A/N: Thank you to An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin for the great list of names. You are my hero : ) Please review and tell me what you think of my new chapter! **

When I awoke, the dull ache had returned to my muscles, but I felt more rested than I had in weeks. With no natural light, I had no way of knowing how much time had passed since I fell asleep, or even what time of day it was. I slowly removed the covers, and sat up, rubbing my eyes and stretching luxuriously. A quick glance around the room revealed that fresh water had been placed on my washstand, along with a small towel. Through the curtains, I could tell that more candles had been lit.

I stood up, testing my left foot's strength gently before placing my weight on it. When I found that I could stand on it, I limped toward the curtain. I pulled the silken cord that I had seen Erik use to open it, and walked through, carefully watching my footing as I went down the steps. When I reached the bottom, I looked around me, my eyes settling on Erik, who was wrapping a dark cloak around his shoulders. When he heard me approach, he turned towards me, his eyes traveling from my feet to my head. For reasons I did not care to analyze, I was suddenly very aware of my rumpled appearance. The reasonable part of me scolded me for caring; the girl in me wished desperately for a hot bath and a pretty dress.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better, thank you." I wondered if all my conversations with him would always be this formal.

"Is there anything you require?"

Well, fresh air would be nice, this place was starting to feel like a prison cell. I also wouldn't mind a fresh croissant and a hot cup of coffee, and perhaps some clothing that fit. For that matter, I would very much like to know what time it was.

"No, thank you."

Why did I always do that? I could have at least asked for the time. He wouldn't have minded telling me. Why was I always so unwilling to make my needs known? When would I stop being such a timid little rabbit? I was suddenly aware that he was watching my face very carefully, as if he could read my thoughts.

"I have some errands I must do, will you be alright if I leave you here?"

The thought of being alone was not a pleasant one, and even though I knew he was only asking out of courtesy, I did not want to be left here in the darkness by myself.

"May I go with you?" I didn't much like the pleading tone my voice had taken on, but hopefully he would feel enough pity to take me with him, wherever he was going.

"Are you sure that you are strong enough?" He glanced at my leg, and I immediately drew myself up to my full height, which, granted, was not very tall. I could doubt myself all I wanted, but I did not appreciate him casting aspersions on my physical ability. Never mind that he was probably right. I got the vague idea that I was being unreasonable, but could not bring myself to care.

"I shall be fine, thank you." He seemed amused by my emphatic response, and gestured for me to follow him, a ghost of a smile playing across his lips. Much to my relief, I found I could walk with only a little difficulty, and my boots were large enough to accommodate any swelling that remained in my ankle; apparently it was only twisted, not even a real sprain.

He led me away from the lake, to a corner of the cavern I had not noticed before, and removing a candle from a small side table, beckoned me through a door.

Immediately, I felt off-balance and confused, finding that I had been ushered in to a room full of revolving mirrors. I thought I saw Erik's shape in front of me, but then it disappeared and was beside me, then it was on the other side...I tried to keep track of where I had come in from, and where Erik was, but I felt myself becoming ill with dizziness.

After a few moments, I thought heard his voice, but I was too dazed and confused to understand his words. Suddenly, I felt him place one arm over my shoulders, his black-gloved hand wrapping around my eyes.

"When I uncover your eyes, you must keep them trained on the floor, do you understand? You must not look at the walls."

I nodded that I had understood, and he removed his hand from my eyes.

"Now do you see the base of that tree?"

I looked a few feet in front of me, and my eyes were met with the strange spectacle of a large metal tree trunk that appeared to be growing out of the middle of the smooth floor. Again I nodded, and he ordered me to walk forward towards it. When we reached it, he covered my hand with his, and moved it to the side of the tree, where I felt a small switch. When I flipped it up, the mirrors stopped revolving, and a door appeared on one side of the room. Wordlessly, he followed me through it.

When I stepped through the door, I saw the ruins of a long hallway stretching out before me. Their were doors stretching along it on either side, and through the ash, I could make out the ornate design of some gaudy wallpaper. I turned to see Erik coming through the door behind me, then moving some mechanism behind a wall sconce. The door we had come through blended perfectly into the wall, and once it closed, I was not entirely sure where it had been.

"Forgive me, Mademoiselle, I should not have taken you that way... I only thought that because it was shorter it would be easier for you, with your injury." He seemed so uncomfortable and angry with himself that I had to smile. I was lucky he had allowed me to come with him, I certainly wasn't in any position to complain.

"Don't worry, it was really quite diverting."

He didn't seem to understand that I was trying to lighten the oppressive atmosphere, and my casual sarcasm was wasted on him. He turned his back on me, and began to walk forward, slowly for my sake. For a few minutes, we were both silent, but after having spent so much time alone, in prison and on the road, I was desperate for the simple human act of conversation.

"I've seen contraptions like it at home," Years of not being allowed to speak of my past in the gypsy camp stopped me from mentioning that I had been well acquainted with the owner of a similar hall of mirrors, who used it as an attraction in our traveling fair, "but never one that moves. And I must say, the tree is an original touch."

He stayed silent, ignoring my silent plea that he speak.

"Where exactly are we?"

"Backstage. These," he gestured with his candle, "were all dressing rooms. Up ahead of us is the costume room. I thought you might want to pick out some better fitting clothing."

So he had noticed. It was either a thoughtful gesture, or a means of getting rid of me, but I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. When we reached the end of the hallway, he pointed out a set of double doors, and gave me his candle.

"Won't you need a light?"

"I will manage. If you finish before I return, don't wander too far. Many of the floors are not sturdy enough to support much weight."

With that he left me alone again. The costume room was truly amazing, and by the light of a very small candle, somewhat frightening. The clothes were indeed very well preserved, and it looked like the fire hadn't touched this part of the Opera House. I rummaged around for a while, until I found rows of ballet costumes, which I assumed would fit me best, being rather small. I quickly dismissed the slave girls outfits, complete with ornate chains, and the fluffy milkmaid dresses. When I was finished, I had a small pile of clothing consisting of another white blouse, a pair of black breeches, a simple blue cotton dress, and a pair of supple black shoes. I might eventually need more, when I emerged back into the outside world, but this would do me quite nicely for now.

As I walked back to the entrance of the room, another costume caught my eye. It was a bright red ruffled skirt and black bodice, covered with beautiful embroidery. Looking at it, my mind turned back to a memory of nearly fifteen years ago, when my mother had presented me with an outfit very much like it.

'You have all the skill you shall need to begin performing,' she had told me, handing over the dress she had spent weeks working on; even as her illness ate away at her body, her smile remained bright and her eyes danced. My heart had nearly burst with pride when she told me that, for I had been practicing so hard to be allowed to join the older dancers. What was that song they used to perform to, the one I used to beg Stefan to play for me so I could practice? I began to absent-mindedly hum it to myself, taking comfort in the familiar sound breaking up the monotony of silence that surrounded me.


	10. Guardian Angel

The last thing he wanted was for her to come with him. He didn't really have errands, he just needed some time alone. Not that she had actually been awake for the past two days to bother him, but her presence made him uncomfortable. His mind, even as he tried to think of other things, would drift to her, lying in the bed upstairs. From there, he could not help but think of the other woman who had occupied the bed, however briefly.

Just thinking of Christine agitated him more than he would like. He preferred to think that he had sealed off that part of his heart, that he had erased her from his mind, and could live as if he had never laid eyes on her. His treacherous thoughts did not comply. His heart, that should have been cold by now, still ached when he remembered her lips on his, the pitying look in her eyes as she looked over her lover's shoulder at him, the boat drawing farther away. He had let her go, and she had gone. He had still kept the faintest hope, after he told her to leave, that she would ignore his command, and return to him. When she had dropped the ring into his hand, that hope died, leaving only a shell of a man behind. Now, whenever he thought of Christine, he had to leave his lair, because the memories their were too painful. Better to come here, to the darkness of her dressing room, or to the chapel where he had first come to her. There, at least, he could remember the time he had spent tutoring her, hearing her beautiful voice echoing in his ears.

Now he sat on the bed, facing the mirror he had taken her through, and contemplated his life. Four days ago, he had considered taking his own life. After all, what did he have left to live for? His artistic domain lay abandoned, he didn't even have managers to bully anymore, no shows to oversee, no magnificent operas to watch from his box. And no beautiful ingenues to teach. He couldn't even bring himself to play music, let alone write anything original. Everyone thought he was dead; he may as well make their belief a reality.

Then, the doors of the opera house had opened once more, this time only admitting a desperate woman and two pursuers. Somehow, he had become involved in the chase, and now he was playing nursemaid to a somewhat pathetic girl who seemed to have as many secrets as he did. He was sure now that she was not just a noblewoman; her manners were perfect, but she had a fire to her that well bred ladies did not generally display. Her offhand reference to the mirrors, and to her adoption by he grandfather convinced him that she was hiding something less than honorable about her past. Her story was sad by itself, but there was more that she was not telling him.

To kill himself now would seem like cowardice, especially when compared to her struggle for life. If life was so precious to her that she had gone through a purgatory of her own to keep it, he couldn't just leave her to die now. He felt a responsibility towards her, and could not just leave her alone by removing himself from his own wretched existence.

His solitude was broken by the sound of a softly hummed tune. At first, his fevered mind thought only of Christine; this was where he had first heard her voice, and now he heard it again. After a brief moment, he realized that it couldn't be Christine; this voice was lower and more than a little tuneless. He knew that it must be Remy; she was the only other person in the opera house. The tune caught his attention, and he knew that he had heard it before, in some long ago time and place. He tried to remember where and when, and shutting his eyes, it came to him. The gypsy camp, the women in the firelight, whose shadows he could see dancing across the walls of the tent that surrounded his cage. They were some of the best performers in France, he had heard it said, and their exotic dances drew crowds even larger than his own twisted face did.

How did she know that song? Born in a gypsy camp, and adopted by a rich nobleman, perhaps. It was improbable but not unheard of, and it made sense. She didn't have the gypsy look about her, but she could be someone's bastard child. His reasoning process was abruptly ended by the sound of Remy's scream coming from down the hall, followed by a cruel laugh.

Fumbling around in the darkness, Erik looked for something he could use as a weapon. He cursed himself for not bringing two candles, one for him and one for her. After what seemed like an eternity, his hands found a solid block of wood, a chair leg or something of the sort. It wasn't his ideal weapon, but it would have to do.

Silently, he opened the door, and looked around the corner. A lantern lit the hall dimly, and he could see Remy and two men in the darkness. One of them held her arm twisted behind her back, with one hand over her mouth. The other stood a few feet away, and held a gun pointed at her.

"You should have known we'd find you," the man with the gun taunted, while Remy struggled desperately in the other's grasp. "You should have run while you had the chance."

"Hurry up and kill the bitch, Henri. The sooner she dies, the sooner we can bring her back to Monsieur Villeforte and collect the money."

"Don't be such a prig, don't you want to have a little fun with the girl first?"

Suddenly, the man holding Remy drew his hand away with a sharp cry of pain, and released her. Erik watched as she ducked down and threw her meager weight into the man with the gun, her body knocking him to the floor, his gun flying from his grasp. Erik saw the man whose hand she had evidently bitten reach for it, his eyes lit with pain and rage, and knew that he must act quickly. As Remy tried to recover herself and run, the man with the gun made to punch her, but never made contact.

Erik came swiftly around the corner, knocking him down, then rolled to the side and got back on his feet, while Remy stared in shock. Henri, who had recovered from Remy's attack had regained his own footing, and now advanced on Erik holding a small blade.

"Run!" He yelled to Remy, who took a few steps, then stopped, seemingly transfixed by the scene before her.

He couldn't think of her now, he had to face his attacker. The blade cut swiftly through the air, almost catching him on the arm as he whirled away from it. While Henri tried to recover his balance, he struck him on the back of the head using the wooden block, knocking him out of the fight for the time being.

Remy was still standing there, why didn't she run, dammit? Now the man with the bleeding hand came at him again, wielding a knife of his own, having lost the gun. Erik searched around him for a weapon, and finding none, quickly removed his cloak, and flung it over his attacker when he ran at him, confusing him long enough to take his knife away from him, andslash athim at him with it. In the confusion, he only managed to catch his arm, and he moved in for a second slash when he felt a cold blade at his own neck.

"How precious, one monster trying to save another. You should thank me for ending your disgusting life!"

His mind ran through a hundred thoughts, but he was frozen in place. He was going to die. Strange how distasteful the idea seemed, now that he had no choice in the matter.

Then, he heard the crack of a gun going off, and the pressure of the knife was removed from his throat. When Henri dropped to the floor, he looked up to see Remy holding the dropped revolver, smoke issuing from its barrel. He heard the other man get to his feet and run, but Remy continued to stand still, eyes locked on his face.

That was when he felt the chill air on his face, his whole face, and realized that his mask was lying on the floor near Remy's feet.

**A/N: Ominous music plays in background**


	11. Unmasked

An eternity seemed to pass in silence, as Remy continued to stand completely still, her eyes locked on his face, gun still pointed towards him. He reached his hand up to cover the distorted side of his face, knowing that it was too late, but not wanting to feel her eyes burning into his deformity. He could not meet her shocked gaze, and hanging his head, waited for her to fire another shot.

"Is he dead?" Her voice startled him, but it was soft and low, almost too quiet to be heard. The hand holding the gun was shaking, and her blue eyes were wide. "Did I...did I kill him?"

He managed a small nod, and she immediately lowered the gun, and tucked it into the waistband of her skirt.

"He didn't hurt you, did he?" She started to take a step forward, but stopped when he recoiled. She seemed so utterly innocent, as if she couldn't see is face at all, that he wondered at her acting ability. Unless, perhaps, she actually did not care. He saw her cast a glance around the hallway, and bend to pick something up. When she stood back up, he saw is mask gleaming pearly white in her hand. Wordlessly, she held it out to him, like some kind of silent peace offering.

* * *

So many thoughts flew through my mind in those moments that I would not have been surprised if my head had exploded. The surprise attack, my rescue by Erik, the man lying on the floor, Erik's face uncovered before me...I had to just let myself think for a moment before I tried to say or do anything. I knew that the entire experience could not have taken more than a few moments, but I felt like I had watched the events unfold over the course of hours.

Now I held a gun unsteadily in my hand, trying to decide whether I was more concerned with the body at my feet or the man in front of me trying to cover his face, his shoulders shaking. Before I could think, or function normally, I had to know that the attacker was dead. His body was too far away, and it was too dark for me to tell, so I asked Erik. He seemed surprised at the question, and I asked again. When he nodded, I realized that I was still pointing the gun at him, and it struck me that he might be uncomfortable with a loaded gun aimed at his head. I quickly tucked it in my waistband, in case the other attacker returned.

Now that I could concentrate, I moved my gaze to Erik's face. My original impression, when the mask first flew off had been complete shock, and looking at him now, I could understand why he had chosen to live under the opera house. How the world must have shunned him!

His right cheekbone was higher than his left, and protruded sharply under his skin. Another ridge ran directly under his eye socket, giving his eye the appearance of being sunken deeply. The skin from his forehead to right under his cheek, from his nose to his hairline was slightly red and tinged purple from the veins that ran too close to the surface of his skin, which was raised in some places and sunken in others. Perhaps more disturbing than the actual deformity was the sharp juxtaposition of the distortion on one side, and beauty on the other. I had seen some frightening things in the sideshow of the fair I grew up traveling with, but never anything like this.

I wanted to look away, but my gaze was riveted to his twisted features, partially hidden beneath his outspread fingers. He wouldn't meet my eyes, and stared at the floor, his posture stiff and hunched over, as though he was waiting for me to scream. His shuddered sigh broke through my shock, and I wondered suddenly if he might have been injured. When I asked, and started towards him, he drew away, like a dog that has been beaten so many times that it comes to expect it. I wanted so badly to say something to him, to tell him that I wasn't afraid, that I wouldn't run, that I still trusted him, but I couldn't think of any words that would fit the situation.

With his mask off, Erik seemed like a different person, completely lacking the cold confidence he usually displayed; he looked like a lost child. Glancing towards my feet, I saw his mask lying on the ground. I picked it up and held it out to him. He took it without a word, and turned away from me to place it back over his face. Once he had it on again, his shoulders straightened and he turned back to me.

This time I approached he did not waver, and his eyes held mine, as if he was asking me a question. Unfortunately, bending down to retrieve his mask, I had also gotten a glimpse of the dead man's gaping head wound; the combination of that gruesome sight and my own physical weakness were working their evil on my stomach, and I was beginning to feel ill.

He noticed the pained expression on my face, and asked me what was the matter. I could only reply by dropping to my knees and groaning. He crouched down beside me, and placed a hand under my chin, lifting it to look at my face. He was lucky that I was considerate enough to wrench my face away from him before throwing up on the floor, my empty stomach heaving desperately. He moved his hand to my shoulder and patted it hesitantly.

When I stopped wheezing, he helped me to my feet, and began to walk back towards the entrance to the mirrored room. I took a moment to gather the clothing I had dropped when I was attacked, and began to follow him, but with every step I took I grew dizzier, and finally, I sank against the wall and called out to him to wait.

"What's wrong?" He asked, striding back towards me.

"I can't...I just need a moment to rest. I don't know what's the matter with me..."

He glanced down the empty hallway quickly, then without warning placed one arm around my shoulders, bent to put the other under my legs, and lifted me up in his arms.

"You are tired, and should not strain yourself any further."

I agreed wholeheartedly, and certainly didn't have the strength to argue that I was strong enough to walk. I wrapped my arms around his neck to steady myself, and felt his muscles stiffen as my hands brushed against him. I laid my head against his chest, breathing deeply and listening to the quiet beating of his heart.

As he carried me down the hallway, I found myself quite enjoying the closeness of contact, and the warmth emanating from his body. It had been a long time since I had felt this safe, and I closed my eyes with a gentle sigh. He stopped abruptly, muscles tensed, and glanced down at me.

"Are you alright? I'm not hurting you, am I?" He looked worried, and his voice sounded unsure. I smiled up at him, and whispered that I was fine. His muscles relaxed, and he continued to walk. I was struck with the thought that he might be so unsure because he had never done this before. He might never have known the love of a woman, and never held a woman in his arms. I knew how it felt to be lonely, but at least I had good memories to keep me company. What good memories could he have, being born with that face and living alone under the opera house? The thought tore at my heart, and brought out compassion that I didn't know I had left in me. I wanted so badly to help him, to comfort him, but I didn't know how.


	12. Conscience

After carrying me back to his home, Erik placed me gently in my bed, and brought me something to eat. He used only the bare minimum of words, leaving me once more with the uncomfortable feeling of being alone even in his company. As I lay in the darkness, I could hear him pacing back and forth, stopping every few moments to sit at his organ, playing a few notes, then getting to his feet once more. I wished that I had the courage to ask him what he was thinking, but the look in his eyes always stopped me, and I feared that any questions I might ask would bring back some past hurt of his.

In any case, my own emotions were tangled enough, without attempting to untangle his. Prominent in my thoughts was the dead body lying abandoned in the hallway. I was sorry I had killed him, I didn't want to be a murderer. But then, it was done in self-defense, he would have killed me. But if I didn't feel remorse than I must be some kind of monster. But I can't be entirely sorry, because I didn't want to die at his hands. But he was only a hired man, the real culprit was still alive. So was I really only sorry that I had killed Leon's lackey instead of Leon himself? It was a dizzying chain of thought that left me exhausted, but too alert for sleep.

I had always thought of myself as a moral, virtuous sort of person, but now I had killed someone, and instead of being sorry that I had killed him, I was sorry that I hadn't killed someone else as well. I had to speak to someone, to ask for help in sorting out what I was feeling. I didn't much fancy the idea of disturbing Erik when he was in such an odd mood, but my loneliness was threatening to overtake the sanity I had left, and my experience with him in the hallway had whetted my appetite for human interaction rather than satiating it.

I quietly rose from the bed, and wrapped the velvet blanket around my shoulders like some oversized royal cape, and walked over to where Erik sat staring at his organ.

* * *

She had seen his face and didn't run. She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She didn't even visibly flinch. But somehow, it would have been easier if she had. Easier if he could have predicted her reaction, and categorized her with every other woman who had ever looked on him with eyes full of terror. Easier because then he could have hated her. Then he could have scorned her, and chased her from the opera house. Then he wouldn't have to see the pity in her eyes, the compassion that a dark voice inside of him said he didn't deserve.

But she had just looked at him, and come closer to him, and given him back his mask with an air of calm that shook him more than fear ever had. She had let him touch her, trusted him, and even smiled at him. She had accepted his face, taken his deformity in stride, and moved on. If only he could do the same.

His actions in the hallway, touching her, carrying her, had been a test. She was fine when he was not near her, but he wanted to know how she would react when he touched her. Still, she didn't recoil, didn't push him away. She even reached for him voluntarily, wrapping her arms around his neck like a child. Once again, he felt the perverse desire to frighten her, to try to prove to her that her trust was misplaced. At the same time, he wanted to justify himself to her, to explain why he lived such a solitary life. Now he was glad to be alone with his thoughts, but strangely sorry as well. Something about her presence was soothing to his broken soul, and he wished that he had the courage to tell her so.

He was so involved in trying to ease his thoughts by turning them to music that he did not hear her approach until she was beside him.

She didn't say anything in response to the questions in his eyes, just stood there for a moment, before wrapping the blanket tighter around her thin shoulders and sinking to the floor beside him, and resting her weight against the organ bench, placed her head on one arm. He had stopped playing, but when she looked at him expectantly, he cast around his memory for something to play, and without really thinking, began to play the gypsy tune he had heard her humming earlier.

He began to lose himself in the music, when he heard her give a gentle sigh. Glancing down, he sawtears gleaming on the exposed side of her face, running down her scarred cheek. He stopped playing, realizing the effect that the song was having on her. She had a trance-like expression on her face, and she was silently mouthing the words of the song. She continued to move her lips even after he stopped playing, until she realized that he was staring at her intently. She lifted her head and looked up at him.

"You play that song beautifully. I've only ever heard it on the guitar."

Her voice was so quiet he could barely hear her, and her shoulders were shaking beneath the thickness of the blanket. He wondered if he ought to take the opportunity to ask her about his suspicions about her past, but she spoke again before he could say anything.

"Have you ever killed a man?"

He hadn't been expecting that, but the pained look in her eyes told him that she wasn't looking for a reason to accuse him. She didn't wait for a reply, just looked at the flash of guilt that crossed his face, and continued to talk.

"The man in the hallway..I meant to kill him; it wasn't even an accident." She looked so guilty, he instinctively reached out to place a hand on her shoulder.

"He would have killed us both. You only did what you had to do." An unwanted memory sprang to his mind, the memory of his first kill. The roughness of the rope in his hands, and the feeling of satisfaction and relief when it was done. The only time he had ever taken a life justly, the only murder that didn't haunt his conscience.

"I know..I just..." She trailed off, shaking her head. When she started again, she stared directly into his eyes, looking for understanding. "I never thought that I could enjoy taking a life. But I did. In some twisted way, I did. And now I am only sorry that I did not have the opportunity to kill the man who sent him here." She looked frightened by the intensity of her anger and her emotions. He imagined she must never have had cause to feel such hate, and did not know what to do with it now that she felt it. He wanted to tell her not to worry, but didn't know what to say. Luckily, she didn't require a response, and laid her head back down on the bench, her ragged hair falling softly in her face. They stayed like that for a long time, both of them silent, taking comfort in each others' presences, until Erik could tell that she had drifted off to sleep. He picked her up and carried her gently to her room.


	13. Not A Lady at All

The last thing I expected to see leaving my room the next morning was Erik sleeping at his desk with his head resting on his arms. His normal evening wear had been mostly discarded, his waistcoat and jacket draped on the chair behind him. Around him, the candles had burned low and were flickering gently. Balled up pieces of paper lay on the floor, and on his desk, and he still held a pen in one hand. He looked so tired and helpless I could feel my latent maternal instinct rising, begging me to cover him with a blanket and brush the dark hair out of his face. Having been so often led wrong by my instincts, I didn't give in, for fear that I might disturb him. He looked like he could use the sleep.

I, on the other hand, felt delightfully well-rested and alert. I rummaged around in the kitchen area to find myself something to eat, and returned to the table with some fruit and some dry biscuits. I was beginning to think that the monotony of the food would drive me insane before the darkness did.

I devoured my meal quickly, and got up to walk around. I hadn't had the opportunity or the inclination to explore very much of Erik's home, and as I walked around, I realized how extensive it was. So far, I had seen the main living area comprised of table, chairs, desk, and food storage, the music area dominated by the organ and the surrounding candles, and the bedroom that I now occupied. Walking the edges of each area, I realized that hidden behind turns in the natural stone walls were two smaller chambers, one that was filled with crates and another that was completely empty except for a tall mirror mostly covered with a red velvet curtain. Behind the organ was another small staircase, and descending it, I found another table, this one holding a large model of a stage, and lined paper filled in with hastily scribbled music. Next to it was a small cupboard, carved with ornate designs, with a small key resting in the lock.

Moving back towards my room, I found another small room, also blocked with a curtain. This one contained a large wardrobe, and a small sewing kit. Moving farther in, I saw a large bath tub, which was surrounded by a series of pipes.

My exploration was interrupted by a low moan from Erik. Walking towards him, I could see that he was still asleep, but the earlier peacefulness was gone. His head remained on his arms, but his back tensed and, and he shivered like he had been dowsed in cold water. He must be dreaming, and from the looks of it, not a pleasant sort of dream. Knowing that I preferred to be awoken when I had nightmares, I placed my hand lightly on his shoulder, feeling the damp sweat through the light fabric of his shirt. I whispered his name gently, so as not to startle him, but apparently he was a jumpy sort of person.

With no warning, his head flew up, and one of his hands reached around to grab my wrist, and with one swift motion he was standing behind me, twisting my arm painfully, with his other hand wrapped around my throat. I froze for the minutest moment, then reacted with instincts that would have done atavern brawlerproud.

I stepped down hard on his left foot while simultaneously elbowing him in the ribs with my free arm. He released me and stepped away, as I whirled around to face him, my heart beating faster than it should. He stared at me for a brief moment, confusion written all over his visible features, before putting up his hands to cover his face andbrush his hair back in one smooth motion.

"Forgive me, mademoiselle. I did not realize..." His voice trailed off, his eyes watching mine with a mixture of shame and concern.

"You are completely forgiven. It wasn't your fault, you were only dreaming." I tried to reassure him, but he looked right through me, obviously still holding on to the conjurings of his subconscious. For the first time, I took notice of the circles under his eyes, which rivaled my own, and it dawned on me that mine was the only bedroom I had found.

"You look so tired, I did not want to wake you, but it looked like you were having a nightmare." He didn't bother to respond, just continued to stare off into the darkness.

"Is that the only bedroom?" I asked, gesturing towards my room. He nodded, but did not speak. I felt the strangest sense of being alone even with him standing so close. I wanted badly to pull him out of his lethargy, to make him notice my presence and respond to it.

"Then where do you sleep?"

Finally, he inclined his head in my general direction. "Out here."

"I'm sorry that my presence has been such an inconvenience to you."

"I do not require much sleep. And I could hardly expect a lady such as yourself to sleep on a cold floor."

There was a mocking note in his otherwise polite words; he must not think very highly of ladies, or of noblewomen, and I knew that my demonstrated helplessness could not have improved his opinion of me. I was struck by a sudden desire to prove to him that he was wrong, that I was, in fact, a very capable person, not some simpering, swooning aristocrat.

"I beg your pardon, but I am not such a lady that I can not sleep on a floor, or on the ground. In fact, I do believe that there are many people who would tell you I am no lady at all."

"Really? And why would that be, pray tell?" He lifted one eyebrow, and smirked at me, as if I was some amusing child. That smile was all it took to open the gates that usually guarded my speech, and let loose a secret I had been forced to keep since I was sixteen.

"Because my mother was a gypsy dancing girl."

For some reason, he didn't look shocked,and his nonchalancewas something of a disappointment. I had thought that telling one of my deepest secrets would get some kind of reaction. "I lived with the gypsies until I was sixteen, traveling in the circus." He looked almost bored. "I even trained to be a dancer myself."

"And what happened when you were sixteen? Adopted by some rich nobleman, I assume."

"What?" How did he know that? What had I let slip? "Apparently, my secret-keeping skills have worsened."

I saw him smile at my wry comment, and felt enormous pride in the achievement, small though it may have been. Revealing my secret had been worth it, to see him become so utterly human when he smiled.

"Why should you bother to keep it a secret? There is no one here to either impress or to shock." The smile disappeared. "Surely you did not think I would care?"

"No, not at all...it has just become habit, I suppose, to hide it. My grandfather never let me speak of it to anyone. It would have disgraced him if anyone knew what I really was."

"If he was so concerned about his reputation, why did he adopt you in the first place?"

Normally, a question like this would offend me, but I was so pleased with the apparent interest he took in the topic that I didn't really mind.

"My father was a nobleman from Alsace. He met my mother in Paris, where he was visiting friends and she was performing at the fair. He claimed to be in love with her, and promised to marry her, and they...well, you know. Anyway, I was the result of that little romance. She never saw him again and he did not appear at their next arranged meeting. She left him a note when the circus left Paris, telling him where they were going next, but he never came to see her." My mother had never spoken of this; I suppose it was too painful for her to recall her abandonment. "When she discovered her pregnancy, she sent another letter to his address in Paris, but he never came to look for us. I never actually met him."

"What kind of fool would abandon a woman who loved him?" I was amazed at how outraged Erik sounded, the strength of his reaction to a story that I had never really thought of as sad. The other gypsy womenalways told me that my mother was better off without that kind of love, and I heartily agreed.

"The kind of fool who has richer women seeking his attentions. In any case, my mother was far too good for him. Apparently, he spent his entire life chasing pleasure, never accepting any responsibility. He died about ten years after he met her, in what I am told was a tragic riding accident. I have never thought it too tragic."

That comment made Erik smirk was once more, and I was glad that he shared my opinion on my father. My mother had always tried to make excuses for him, as had my grandfather, and it was something of a relief to know that someone agreed that he got what he deserved.

"My grandfather was distraught, because my father was his only child, and he was now without any family at all. While sorting through my father's letters one day, my grandfather found the letter my mother had written him, telling him that she was pregnant. He spent the next six years searching for my mother. He had a difficult time of it, because there are so many gypsy clans all around France, and we moved so often."

Now came the painful part of the story, the part I had tried to push from my memory.

**A/N: Sorry to leave you hanging like this, but I promise the next chapter will be here soon.**


	14. A Shared Memory

**A/N: As promised, the rest of her story. Or, part of the rest of her story. She has a whole lot of story left to tell.**

"When my grandfather finally found us, my mother had been sick for months. None of the doctors we hired had been able to so much as diagnose a particular illness, but they were all very sure that she was dying. My grandfather visited her and asked for permission to adopt me, as he had no other heir. I didn't want to go with him at first. I had known a good life in the camp, and had...people who cared about me there. But my mother wanted me to go; she told me that I would have a better life with him. In the end, he promised me all sorts of comforts, and I consented."

What I conveniently did not mention was the fact that I had been more swayed by his promises of beautiful dresses and splendid parties than anything else. I left the only home I had ever known for the stupid things that selfish children like me wanted. I got the strangest feeling that Erik guessed why I had gone with my grandfather, and it made me sincerely uncomfortable. I just hoped that he did not guess that I, like my father, had left behind someone who loved me. I could not bear for him to know my secret shame, that being rich had been more appealing than being loved by a good man.

"I returned with him to Alsace when my mother died. He never tried to cover up the fact that I was the illegitimate daughter of his son, but he never let on that my mother was a gypsy dancing girl. He had everyone in the town convinced that my mother was some noblewoman from Paris, whose name he did not reveal out of respect for her family. In fact, Leon was the only person who knew who she really was, untilI was imprisoned and he told the whole town."

"How did he find out?" Erik's eyes were very disconcerting, and I felt that he was staring through my body to the somewhat tarnished soul beneath.

"I told him." He raised an eyebrow. "I was in love with him, I never imagined that he would use it against me."

"So that is why you did not tell me." I was a little confused by his comment, and looked at him for an explanation. "Your past made you vulnerable to his scheme, and you didn't want it to happen again."

I had never thought about it that much, but it was true. Leon would never have been able to do what he did if my mother had in fact been a noblewoman. The people he used to condemn me never would have followed him if they feared a wealthy, influential family's wrath.

"I suppose that's true. But I think that if he didn't know that I was vulnerable, he would have found some other scapegoat." A small voice in my head starting whispering that he had never loved me at all; that he had courted me because he knew that I would let him use me. I didn't much like the direction that thought would take me in, and tried to divert the attention back to Erik.

"How did you guess my heritage so easily? I hate to think it was that obvious. You must know something about gypsy clans."

He got the strangest look on his face, and quickly turned from me to hide it. There was a horrible sadness and anger in his eyes that I could see even in the growing darkness, that told me any experience he had with gypsies was not a pleasant one. He hesitated for a long while, before speaking, and I became increasingly aware of the fact that many of the candles had burned out around us while I told my story.

"I also traveled with a gypsy fair for a time." His voice was colder than before, as if he was steeling himself for some terrible test. "They found me wandering around Rouen, and decided that a face like mine would have great value on display."

Oh God. It made sense; I had seen the people who traveled with our sideshow, and none of their faces really compared with his. In the dark recesses of my mind, a memory began to surface, a memory of a story I had been told, that had been used to frighten me. While my mind tried to recall the specifics of the tale, he continued, his voice coming out harshly.

"A man named Zurka _adopted _me." From the way he spit out the words, I could tell that his adoption had probably been more like an imprisonment. The name seemed familiar, though, like a warning.

'Greedy old Zurka made a mistake,

Took in a demon, a profit to make.

But such evil cannot stand to be bound,

and he killed greedy Zurka, with a rope that he found .'

I remembered the other children chanting it, when they dared me to enter that forest in Orleans. What were those last lines? "He put me on display for the crowds to come and gawk at." The steel in Erik's voice was threatening to cut through me. He must have noticed my distant expression as my mind reached in vain for that story, and he seemed to take offense at it. He grabbed me by my shoulders, his hands shaking with rage, and lowered his face to my level, so that I could stare directly into his furious green eyes. "Do you want to know what he called me? What he wrote on the banner above my _cage_? Do you!"

I remembered. 'So hush, little child, be on guard at all time...' How did it end?

"Or the Devil's Child will treat you in kind."

This last line I spoke out loud, before Erik could continue. His eyes grew wide with shock, and he released my shoulders, stepping back as though I had slapped him. For a moment, he was silent, staring at me in shock. Then he spoke again, his voice a harsh whisper.

"How did you know that?"

"It was a story. The older children used to tell about a boy with the face of Satan himself. A boy who killed his master and escaped in Paris, around the same time that I was conceived. They always told us that we shouldn't wander too far from the camp, or he would come and get us." Erik's breathing was becoming erratic and loud, as he turned his back on me. I decided not to dwell on that particular note any longer. From what I knew of this man, he was prone to sudden, violent mood changes, and I didn't really want to find out how exactly he had earned the fear that was accorded to him.

For what seemed like an eternity, he stood a few feet away from me, his back turned so that I could not see his face. My intution told me that something else ought to be said. Erik looked so dejected, standing the way he was, with his hand on his mask, and his shoulders slightly hunched, as if the weight of his memories was too much for him to carry. I began to walk toward him, hoping that he would not move away. I needn't have worried; even when I stood directly behind him, he did not take notice of my presence.

Hesitantly, unsure of how my gesture would be received, I placed a hand on his shoulder. He shuddered at my touch, but did not say a word. Slowly, I walked so that I was facing him, running my hand down his arm as I did so, until I reached his hand. Impulsively, I reached out to grasp the other, and stood for a moment just staring at the black leather gloves he always wore, not wanting to see his expression.

"For whatever it is worth, and I realize that it may not mean anything at all, I am sorry. I am sorry that the people I called family treated you so. I am sorry that I laughed at that story with all the other children, thinking that it was funny. And I am sorry that I have nothing to offer you in return for the kindness you have shown me."

He just stared at my face, while I wondered if he would take offense at my pity, if I had only made my situation worse. My questions were answered when he uttered a strangled sob, then dropped to his knees, overcome by some emotion I could not read, and tangled his hands into my skirt, his face pressed against my legs as if I were the only thing left to support him.

**A/N: Many thanks to my little sister for the Devil's Child rhyme. Looks like we are headed towards some fluffiness. Or maybe not. Better review to find out!**


	15. A Moment's Comfort

**A/N: Wow, getting pretty fluffy. Could it be our two lost souls are close to finding some kind of happiness...**

He had done it again. Once more, his emotions had taken control, and instead of simply letting Remy tell her story, he had broken down and told her his. He had allowed himself to drown in his miserable past, and wallow in his own self-pity. The difference between this time and all the other times he had let go like this was that now this woman was trying to save him, reaching out her hands to pull him from the sea of his sorrow.

He felt as pathetic as he was sure he looked, on his knees in front of her, but something inside him had not been able to resist the simple human contact that she had offered. It was a simple enough gesture on her part, to try to comfort him, but her touch had crashed through one of the walls he had built around his soul, driving him to the ground with the emotion that burst through.

And now she just stood there, not moving, not pulling away, just standing still. They stayed like that for a few moments, until she bent down and wrapped her arms gently around his shoulders, bringing one hand up to gently stroke his hair. He buried his face in her neck so that she could not see it, so that she could not tell that tears had begun to roll down his cheeks.

* * *

I had no idea how I had provoked such a reaction. My words had been meant to calm him, but instead, I seemed to have unleashed some deeper pain than that he had been willing to tell me about. I had no idea what I should do in such a situation. I felt the dampness of tears on my neck, and realized with a shock that he was crying. I had never seen a man cry before, and Erik wasn't just any man. His emotions were obviously entirely erratic, and I knew he was at least a little insane. 

I had comforted people before: gypsy children with scraped elbows and bruised knees from adventures gone awry, heartsick ladies' maids whose objects of affection did not return their love; young peasant brides whose children died at birth. For some reason or another, I had always been good at soothing words and comforting gestures, and I prayed that those skills would not fail me now.

I began to hum, the tune my mother used to sing to me, to comfort me when I cried. I had a fleeting fear that my tuneless voice would grate on ears that were used to listening to operatically trained sopranos, but I decided that he was in such a distraught state that he wouldn't really care.

He had never been held like this before, never had someone stay so close for so long. He waited for her to pull away and leave him in his sorry state, but she didn't. She stayed with him, cradling his head on her shoulder, letting him take comfort in the warmth of her arms.

* * *

His own mother had never had the courage or the love to hold him, or speak kindly to him, or kiss him. Now, listening toRemy's voice, he knew that he could not let himself do this; he could not lose himself in this solace. She let him be close to her now, but what about later? As soon as she was strong enough, she would be gone from his life. He didn't know if she had come to Paris with any kind of plan for leaving, but she would not wish to stay in the darkness forever. And when she was gone, the memory of any relief she had given him would burn at his soul until it consumed him. So it had been with Christine, so it would be with Remy. 

He had accepted Christine's kiss, believed for a few short moments that she would stay with him, and those moments of hope pained him more than any other memories of the time he had spent in her company. The worst kind of pain in the world was the pain of having a void where pleasure used to be, and he would not let Remy hurt him that way.

* * *

Erik almost knocked me over when he stood up abruptly, pushing my arms away from his shoulders impatiently. He took a few steps away from me, brushing his glossy hair back into place and readjusting his mask, which must have been knocked loose. Once again, I was astounded by his ability to change emotions the way others change clothes, as though his feelings were just another mask that could be put on or removed at a moments notice.

I stood as well, and stared in shock as he sauntered over to the chair that his waistcoat and evening jacket had been flung over. He proceeded to ignore my presence and everything that had just passed between us while calmly getting redressed. He looked like any gentleman preparing for a night of entertainment, instead of the emotional wreck I had just held in my arms.

When he finished adjusting his cravat, he turned back to me and ran his eyes over me, as if I was the insane one. Which I supposed I was. I had been stupid enough to think I had some insight into his character, that I could feel comfortable with him.

"We are running low on vital supplies. I need to go out and buy some food. I suggest that you do not accompany me, in light of what happened last time you did."

I had the insatiable urge to throw something at him, and my eyes had settled on a wonderfully sized lamp that I was sure would fly beautifully, but I managed to restrain myself. I had to clench my fists tightly and bit my tongue to do it, but I didn't send any objects hurling in his direction. Who did he think he was? He was the one who had collapsed in my arms, not the other way around. I could tell that he wanted a response, but I was too busy seething in my impotent rage to give him one. I ended up just glaring at him. He finally looked away, hopefully ashamed of his cavalier attitude.

"I will only be gone an hour or two. You will be perfectly safe here. I promise."

I nodded and turned my back on him, allowing my skirts to swish around me in the most satisfying manner, and stalked off to my room, leaving him staring after me.

**A/N: I guess not. Sorry to all the fluff lovers, I promise there will be more cuteness eventually, but there is just way too much emotional damage, and overall instability for a healthy relationship to be that easy... **


	16. The Other Side

"I swear to you, Monsieur Villeforte, I will find her, I swear it! Please, just give me another chance! Please!"

Leon put his pistol back into holster, allowing the cowering man before him to get to his feet.

"Stand up, you toad. I have no use for your disgusting excuses. Now, explain to me again why dear Remy's head is not on a platter before me. Metaphorically speaking, of course." He stepped away and began pacing in front of the fire. "A head on a platter would trail blood everywhere, leave stains on my cloths, lead the police here, smell horrible...no, as fun as that might be, it just isn't worth the mess. No, I don't really care what you do with her body as long as I see it before you bury it. To make sure she's dead, of course. You understand, after your previous failures, I'm not entirely sure I trust you to finish the job. Now, you were about to explain?"

Leon sat gracefully back into his chair and waited. Henri stood nervously in front of him, wringing his hands in front of him, sweat dripping down his forehead, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"There was a man...with her..." He ran his sweaty hand against his sweaty forehead, trying, to no avail, to reduce the moisture there. "He was protecting her. He killed Jacques. He would have killed me, but I..."

"You ran like a little cow." Leon leaned forward. "A man, you say? So, my little whore of a fiancee found herself a new dupe to look after her. Interesting. So, tell me a little something about this mystery man."

"He...um...was...uh...tall?"

"I'm asking you, you idiot, not the other way around."

"He had...let's see...dark...ah...hair, and, well..."

"I'm waiting."

"Sir, it was very dark, sir, and sir, I couldn't see well, sir."

"And I imagine it is hard to get a look at someone when you are running away." Leon smirked and fingered the pearl handle of his revolver lovingly. Henri took a deep breath; trying to remember was putting an enormous strain on his tiny brain. Finally, his eyes lit up with the glow of a man who has just avoided getting shot by an impatient psychopath.

"He was wearing a mask, sir. A white mask on the right side of his face. It came off.. Right after he..tackled me. I didn't see what was underneath." Leon raised an eyebrow. "It was very dark, sir. Very dark. Almost black, sir. Quite hard to see."

"Well, I am astonished. You have proved quite useful."

Henri smiled broadly. "Well, thank you sir, I..." Leon jumped from his desk, slamming his palms down hard, making Henri jump.

"That doesn't mean your contract has ended!" His eyes narrowed into slits, as he stared at the frightened man. "You are going to go gather some information for me. If some masked man lives in an opera house, there is someone in this damnable city who knows something. Try the local taverns, you might get lucky and find some drunken hussy to tell you all the local legends. Find out anything you can."

"Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir."

"Now, I am going to find myself some braver men. About a dozen, I think, will do the trick." He sat back down, and placed his feet on the desk. "A second fox in our little hunt. I get the feeling this whole wretched business is about to get more amusing."

He was a little sorry that he had been forced into this, chasing the foolish girl across France, but that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy himself while he hunted her. After all, Paris was a very amusing city, full of beautiful women who were more than willing to bed a wealthy, mysterious nobleman like himself. And now, with his parents gone, he was finally free of the facade he had been forced to keep up his entire life. The tiresome game of trying to please his desperately old-fashioned parents was finished for good, and now he could do as he wished, and spend his new fortune.

He had to thank Remy, really, for this new freedom. He couldn't have found a better, more convincing scapegoat if he had tried, and she had thrown herself headlong into his net. Poor girl. On the wrong side of twenty-five, and still not married. It was no wonder she had been so easily snared by his casual attentions.

He had never meant to become engaged to her, let alone marry her, but the situation had worked out perfectly. All he had to do was dance with her a few times, and whisper some compliments in her delicate ears, and she was his. She had told him her little secret, the story of her bastard beginnings, and all the pieces had fallen into place.

A few lovely gifts of flowers and chocolate, and she had consented to marry him. And everyone in the town knew that she wanted very badly to be married. His parents had acted just as he predicted when he told them that his wife-to-be was the offspring of a dancing girl; they had refused to let the union take place. And simply as that, he had given Remy a motive for the murder. Never mind that her innocent little mind would never have thought of such a thing; she had been full of good intentions, reassuring him that together, they could win his parents over. But after a year, when it looked as though his parents would never consent, she became impatient, insisting that if he loved her, he would defy them. And the motive increased. Then, all he had needed to do was kill the old tyrants, and place the poison where she would find it. Once she confronted him, and carelessly left fingerprints all over it, he just called the gendarmes, and had them haul her to jail. When he revealed her secret, the entire town was more than willing to believe that she had killed the Villefortes. After all, you couldn't trust a gypsy.

The witch part he had thrown in for the pure fun of it. And, of course, as revenge for leaving such an ugly scar on his cheek. It amazed him how easy the whole thing had been. His word had gotten the whole town on his side, with the exception of that stupid priest,who had actually had the nerve to defend the girl. That had only been a minor problem, though, dealt with by writing a very sentimental letter to Bishop Chausson regarding the tragic death of his parents; and the obvious need to transfer Father Renault to another parish.

He felt a great deal of satisfaction when he recalled visiting dear Remy in prison with her grandfather, and watching as the old man vented his disgust with the granddaughter he had previously doted on. It was a truly beautiful moment, seeing the tears on her face as she begged Monsieur Neuvillette to believe her, knowing that he, Leon Villeforte, had won.

And then she had gone and spoiled all his fun. She had taken advantage of a drunken guard, and fled to the new home of her priest friend, Father Renault, in Lorraine. By the time he got there to fetch her home so that she could attend her execution, she had already left. Even killing Renault hadn't made up for letting her slip from his grasp. But she had a new friend here in Paris, so now he got to kill two people instead of just one. It was odd, how much fun taking life was. His parents' deaths had given him a taste for it, and now he couldn't get enough. Now, all he had to decide was if he should kill Remy first, and get her out of the way, or kill her new companion first, and make her watch. He rather liked the sound of the latter; he would make her beg for mercy, then cut her beautiful little throat. Yes, this would be fun.

**A/N: Yeah, he's a psycho. In case you had yet to figure that out. **


	17. Resolutions

**A/N: Sorry it has taken me so long to update; school was crap this week, so if you want to blame something for my lack of updates, blame calculus (Rachel will know what I am talking about) Anyway, thank you all for the lovely reviews, I greatly appreciate the feedback. Without further ado, your chapter!**

I only emerged from my room when I was sure that he was gone, when I heard the gentle sloshing of the boat on the water. I waited until the noise disappeared completely, then walked tentatively down the stairs. My little seclusion had given me time to think about what had just happened, and I had come to the conclusion that Erik was not, in fact, insane.

Now, that did not mean he wasn't somehow damaged; he was without doubt the greatest emotional wreck I had ever met, and I had met some very strange people. No, he had obviously been hurt a great deal, but that did not make him crazy, necessarily. Subject to violent mood swings, yes, but a complete psychopath, no. And I ought to know; having been engaged to one, I certainly ought to be able to recognize one now.

With this conclusion came a desperate desire to help him in some way, but the reasonable part of my mind pushed it aside. Whether or not I could do anything for him was entirely up for debate; if I tried, and it turned out I could do nothing, then I would just be stuck here wasting my time when I should be getting myself further away from Leon. And even if it was possible for me to help him, was it really my responsibility to do so? Had I wasted all twenty-eight years of my life only to learn nothing? I was responsible for myself, and should act accordingly, as Erik so obviously was. As soon as I was strong enough, in a day or two, I would take some provisions, steal myself a horse, and go to Marseilles, as originally planned. I could be cold-hearted. Really. I would just leave.

Who was I trying to fool? Whether or not I admitted it, I owed to Erik a debt of gratitude. He had saved my life twice now, allowed me to live in his home when he so plainly preferred solitude, and comforted me when my conscience ate at my soul. I knew that he did not trust me; his recent actions fully persuaded me that some woman had hurt him, and as a result, he did not trust any woman. I had to at least be kind to him; I could not let him continue to believe that the entire world was cruel and uncaring.

There was something in my character that my imprisonment should have destroyed, a desire to be gentle and comforting, that I had convinced myself was gone the day I left Alsace. But it was there still, an intrinsic part of my nature, weakness though it may have been.

I took a book with me when I left my room, to amuse myself until Erik returned; a German book on architecture. My grasp of the German language had always been good, living as I had so close to the border, near the Rhine river. And even if I hadn't been able to read it, the illustrations were lovely. I sat in a large, red, velvet covered chair that was wide enough I could curl up in it and tuck my legs underneath me.

The drawing I opened the book to look so much like my home in Alsace that I found tears coming to my eyes. Our town was built in the same style as the German villages, and the homes of the nobility were modeled after German castles. This particular drawing showed a gothic church set on a hill overlooking a town, and looked exactly like the church I had been baptized in when my Grandfather brought me to live with him, and later been put on trial outside of. I couldn't bring myself to turn the page, just stared at that one drawing while tears rolled down my cheeks. I had not realized how much I missed the home where I had spent the last twelve years of my life. That past seemed so far away, just as the first sixteen years of my life had seemed so distant when I went to live in Alsace.

* * *

While purchasing food, Erik had plenty of time to think things over. He resolved that from now on, for as long as it was necessary for Remy to stay with him, he would not let her get to him the way she had. He had to remain cold- not cruel, just distant- if he wanted to survive. He would treat her with respect and with hospitality, but she was not his friend, and he could not allow himself to think of her as such. He could not let the expressiveness of her eyes make him believe that she in any way cared for him. And he would not be fooled by the gentleness of her touch on his arm, and the way she cradled his hands in her delicate ones. And he would not let himself remember with any satisfaction the way it had felt to have her arms around him. No, he would not make the same mistake again.

He had spent his entire life being distanced from the world, he should certainly be able to distance himself from Remy. Never mind that there was something in her voice that drew him in, and a touch of sadness in her smile that made him believe that she understood him. This was a part that he could play with ease; the part of a man without a heart and soul.

He mentally prepared himself as he crossed the lake, ready to shut his emotions out. But apparently, Remy had no desire to cooperate with his attempts.

She looked like a child, curled up in his chair, with her legs tucked under her, and her head resting against the side of the chair. She held a book on her lap, and tears fell from her beautiful blue eyes, gleaming on her cheeks in the low candlelight. His resolve shook, but did not break completely. He could be kind without giving in to his weakness, sympathetic without becoming invested in her sorrow.

When she saw him walking towards her, she quickly brushed the tears off her face and looked up at him.

"I didn't hear you coming. I was just reading, and..." She trailed off, gesturing to the book.

"What's wrong? Are you hurt? Hungry?"

"No, I'm fine, really. Just...just homesick, I suppose." She looked so ashamed of herself that he found himself reaching his hand out to wipe the tears that continued to trail down her cheeks, but withdrew his hand quickly when he realized what he was doing.

"Homesick?" Never having had a real home of any kind, it was a hard thing for him to imagine.

"Well, I don't miss the prison and all that, but it was my home. I don't know, maybe I just miss being outdoors." She had a faraway look in her eyes, that made his heart ache. Of course, she must hate it here in the darkness with him. No one was meant to live like this, certainly not a beautiful girl like her. She seemed to realize what he was thinking, and quickly amended her statement. "Not that I don't like it down here, but it does get a bit...oppressive."

"Come with me." He held his hand out to her, and she took it, gracefully lifting herself from the chair, looking at him quizzically. He ignored the question in her eyes, and led her to the boat.


	18. Springtime in Paris

As we crossed the lake in his boat, I wondered where he was taking me. I considered asking, but after insulting his home the way I had, I didn't want him to think that I didn't trust him. I briefly thought that maybe I shouldn't trust him, but discarded the idea quickly. If he wanted me dead or gone, he could easily have arranged it.

He was silent all the way across the lake, and didn't speak until we reached the other side.

"Do you feel up to walking?"

I nodded, and he took the lantern from the front of the boat, and shone it in front of us. I looked up and saw a circular staircase stretching up into the gloom. We began the ascent, Erik keeping his pace slow to accommodate my shorter legs. I was afraid that I would get tired, but my body surprised me with its resilience. The constant motion actually felt good, and when I glanced down to see how far we had come, I could barely make out the shimmer of water far below us.

My ankle didn't hurt at all, and I was amazed at how short a time it had taken me to recover, when I realized that I didn't actually know how long it had taken.

"Erik?" He paused and looked down at me. "How long have I been here?"

"One week."

That seemed like a very long time. I had been under the impression it was shorter than that. I must have slept most of the time, which would account for my quick recovery. Erik didn't bother elaborating, and started walking upwards again.

After a while, the staircase ended abruptly, and he opened a door that I could have sworn was just another part of the wall until it swung outwards. The hall that we stepped into was very much like the one we had been attacked in, and he warned me to step only where he did, in case the floor was damaged. At the end of the hall, there was another staircase, this one wooden and a little unstable-looking. Erik didn't appear worried, though, so I didn't bother commenting on the fact that it looked like it would collapse under us.

Now, the distance was beginning to take its toll, and my legs began to ache. He had to stop a few times to allow me to catch up with him. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he opened another door, and led me through it.

He had taken me to the top of the opera house, and now I was walking on the roof of the grand building. After the darkness of the interior, the light of the stars was almost blinding, and I closed my eyes for a moment while my lungs gulped in the cool night air.

I opened my eyes and walked towards the edge of the roof, stopping here and there to admire the majestic statues that lined the edges of the building, and bask in the glow of the starlight on my face and the fresh breeze that brushed my hair from my face and lifted it off my shoulders like a friendly hand. The chill of winter that had made my journey so uncomfortable at night was all but gone, leaving only the agreeable warmth of early April. Taking deep breaths, I could smell the faintest hint of lilacs, and closing my eyes once more, I almost fooled my senses into believing that I was home again.

But now I had reached the edge of the roof, and suddenly, all of Paris was stretched out before me, the city lights flickering gently in the darkness, illuminating the glory of the grand buildings around me.

"Thank you." I whispered, sensing Erik's presence behind me. He stepped forward so that he was standing next to me, and I could feel his eyes on me.

He found himself one more admiring the pride and grace with which she carried herself, her light footsteps not making a sound as she appeared to float rather than walk across the roof, the way she held her back perfectly straight, the grace with which she moved. Watching her now, it was obvious that she was a trained dancer; no one else could make such simple motions so beautiful to watch. And now she was thanking him, her voice gentle as the breeze, her eyes shining with real joy, not actually smiling, but without the sadness that always seemed to hang over like a cloud.

As soon as he realized where his traitorous thoughts were leading, he knocked them aside, to replace them with darker ones. This was were he realized he had lost Christine. This was where she and her lover had shared their duet, while he looked on from the shadows. After that, all his love and devotion had been futile. She had given her heart to Raoul without a thought for her Angel of Music, leaving him to rot in his lonely hell. After that, he had been powerless to separate them, powerless to make her love him.

He realized that Remy was looking intently into his eyes, and smoothed his face back into its neutral expression, so that she could not read the turmoil of his mind.

"Do you like it?"

She waited a minute before answering, her expression thoughtful.

"I'm not sure." He was mildly surprised by her answer. How very like this woman to not be able to answer either yes or no. She continued, her head cocked slightly to one side in a rather endearing manner. "I mean, from here, it's lovely. It's one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. But it isn't real." She was silent for a moment.

"I can assure you, Mademoiselle Remy, it's quite real."

"I know, the city is real. The beauty isn't. From up here, all we can see are the lights and the buildings and the trees. But what is it like in the harsh light of day? What about the beggars who sit on the streets and starve while the wealthy pass by and turn up their noses? What about the hate and prejudice that lives in all those hearts, the cruelty that you can't see, but that is more real than any facade they can put up to cover it? The beauty disappears as soon as you get close, the solitude is just a mirage that fades away." There was a thinly disguised passion and sadness in her voice, that grew steadily stronger until she stopped, her eyes troubled, staring into the distance. When she started again, her voice was quiet. "If there is one thing I have learned, it's that beauty means nothing. Leon was the most handsome man I had ever met, but look what he did to me." Here, she gestured to the scar on her cheek. "Everyone believes that they can trust beauty, that it somehow means virtue. And they are all wrong."

Silently, they stood there side by side, alone in their separate thoughts. She noticed the hard expression on his face, and followed his gaze with hers. Finally, Erik broke the silence.

"You are very young to be so realistic. It must be a terrible thing to have lost all the illusions that the rest of mankind seems to cling to."

She uttered laugh that sounded more disbelieving than actually amused..

"I never had many illusions to begin with. I learned very young that love is more often than not simply lust in disguise, that most people do things with purely selfish intentions, that the one thing everyone fears is the truth. Besides, I am hardly young. I'm twenty-eight, you know. That's practically dead and buried as far as society is concerned."

"Twenty-eight is not old; it's just barely an adult."

"Oh really? And how old are you, that you possess such wisdom?"

"Thirty-seven."

"That's all?"

"What were you expecting?"

"I just thought you must be older than that. Most of the thirty-five year-old men I knew acted like spoiled children. Probably because they were spoiled children."

"You certainly take a dim view of your former friends."

"I never said they were my friends. They were passing acquaintances, people I exchanged pleasantries with as part of the game that everyone in society played."

"I'm sure it must have been very hard," His voice grew hard and bitter, "being rich and beautiful. Truly, I can't imagine how difficult it must have been for you."

"I never said that it was, so you needn't sound so sarcastic." He had to admit, he enjoyed seeing her riled up. It was amusing to watch her aristocratic training duel with her gypsy temper, as she tried to maintain her exterior calm and failed. "But if you must know, it wasn't a pleasant life. Wealth does not make for good companionship, nor beauty for actual happiness. If my life was as wonderful as you make it sound, then why would I possibly have become engaged to Leon?"

"You mean you did not love your fiancé?"

"Define love. Was I attracted to him? Sort of. Did I enjoy his company? Sometimes. Did I love him? No, I didn't."

"Then why did you agree to marry him?"

"Because I was the rapidly aging daughter of a well-known scoundrel and his mistress, whose identity no one knew; I had no other prospects. My grandfather's health was failing, and I was afraid of being alone when he died. Leon seemed like a good, steady man, who would take care of me. It seemed like the practical thing to do."

"So you were going to marry for practicality?" He heard his voice take on a jeering quality, and knew that it was unfair to judge her when he knew relatively little about her life, but he couldn't help himself.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I was. Is there something so terribly wrong with that?"

"I thought one generally married for love, or I suppose in your circle, money. But you had all the money you needed, and did not love him at all. No wonder the whole affair turned out the way it did." He hadn't meant to say that, and knew that it was cruel of him, but it was already done, and he couldn't very well apologize.

"Really? And what do you know of love? You, who lives so completely alone, are lecturing me on marriage? I can scarcely stand the irony. I was lonely, for God's sake! You of all people should know what that feels like! It was pointless for me to search for real love; I had already lost my chance at that. And I certainly wasn't about to throw myself into a relationship based purely on passion, not after what I had seen my mother suffer. So, yes, I got engaged for practicality! I wanted a husband, children, a family, all the things I had never had in life. Now you tell me that you honestly believe that I acted wrongly! Tell me!"

How dare she? What did she know of him, or of love? She must never have felt the emotions he had, the burning passion that threatened to consume everything in its path, that had forced him to act as he had, that had taken complete control of his mind whenever Christine was near. He may be alone in his own private hell now, but he had loved more deeply than Remy's purely practical mind could ever imagine.

**A/N: I decided I didn't want him to be too much older than Remy, so I am figuring that he was about nine years old when he escaped from the gypsy camp, and that happened 28 years before my story takes place.**


	19. Magic of the Night

How did he manage to make me so angry when I had resolved to be kind to him? Why did he have to provoke me when we had finally begun having a real conversation, a civil one? And what right did he have to criticize my choices and my life, living as he did like a madman in the basement of an Opera House? I knew I had made some bad decisions, but I certainly did not need him to tell me so. When he had brought me to the rooftop, understood my need for air and for freedom, I had felt my heart go out to him, trying as hard as he was to make me happy. I had felt so comfortable in his presence that I did something I had not done in a long time: I had told him exactly what I was thinking, before wondering how he would take it, or if it was appropriate, or if it fit the rules for polite conversation that had been drilled into me.

It seemed that the more I was around him, the more I felt myself reverting back to the girl I had been at fifteen, before my mother took ill, before my grandfather came to take me to my new life. The carefully built up reserve that had brought me through countless social occasions was breaking down, leaving behind it the confident, headstrong girl that I used to be.

Never before had I realized how much my aristocrat training had affected me, made me believe that I was not good enough as I was, stripped me of all the qualities that had once considered admirable; my courage, my outspokenness, my faith in myself. But when I began to fight back, starting with my escape from prison, all that I had been began to return to me. Now, I had finally felt free enough to tell someone about my past, to relatethe storywhich I had been taught to believe was shameful. And when Erik asked me if I liked the view, I had finally said what I had wanted to say to someone for three weeks now, the conclusions I had reached as a result of the turmoil of my life. Then, I had compounded my lapses in etiquette by revealing my age, something a civilized woman would never do.

But then Erik had to go and make me lose my temper, another thing I had been taught not to do. And somehow, we had both turned cruel, throwing words like they were daggers, intent upon wounding each other. He had started it, of that I was sure, but I was ashamed that I had joined in so readily, that his questioning of my life had provoked me to attack so quickly, and wound him the way I had.

For I could see that my careless comment about his lonely life had stung him, he had stopped speaking, stopped moving. His face, which had actually become animated, at least for him, froze back into the cold expression he wore whenever he was trying to convince me that he wasn't feeling anything. And then I knew that I should not have said it, that while his attacks were annoying to me, they were not harmful. I knew well enough that my reasons for marrying Leon, while perhaps selfish, had nothing to do with his betrayal of me. I had already admitted my mistakes to myself, during long hours spent soul-searching while trying to evade Leon's men. Those truths had already cut me when I realized them then, the wounds had healed and the pain was mostly gone. But attacking Erik's lonely state, that was harsh. I didn't feel much like apologizing, not after he had insulted me, and even though I knew it was bordering on childish, I walked away.

Once I was few feet away from him, and not so oppressed by his gloomy presence, I began to enjoy myself. The rooftop was truly magnificent, and the statuary grand. The light from the stars reflected off the gleaming marble surfaces, the only things that seemed unaffected by the terrible fire that had destroyed the interior. The sound of carriages rolling over stone streets below barely penetrated the heavy silence, and all I could hear were my own footsteps. The whole scene was like something from a fairy tale, and it sparked in me a desire for the romantic and absurd. Without even a thought for how ridiculous I must look, I closed my eyes, and began to dance across the rooftop.

In my mind, my bruises and scars disappeared, my ragged clothing was a ruffled dancing dress, my enormous boots were dainty slippers, and the silence was filled with music; music that filled my heart and soul, and drew me across the cold stone of the rooftop. I was drawn back to campfires and guitars; to glowing ballrooms filled with laughing people.

The ache in my legs from climbing those long flights of stairs was gone, as my feet moved through the elegant patterns of the waltz, my arms extended as if I was being held by an imaginary partner.

Suddenly, I felt a leather-clad hand take mine, and a strong arm circle around my waist. My eyes fluttered open again, and I found myself staring into Erik's unreadable eyes. Even in the darkness, I could make out an amused smile on his lips. I had stopped dancing, but he pressed his hand to my back, and began to lead me in the dance, his feet in perfect synch with mine, despite the lack of music to keep time by.

"What are you doing?" I whispered, surprised by his participation in my flight of fancy.

"I might ask you the same thing."

I felt a blush creep up my neck and across my cheeks, and didn't answer.

"It would have shown poor manners on my part to let beautiful woman dance alone."

"You really need not indulge me. Just because I choose to make a fool of myself doesn't mean you have to."

"You looked like you were enjoying yourself, and I have never had the honor of escorting a woman to a ball."

"Well, I am very sorry. This must be a very disappointing first ball; usually, there is a great deal more music, and light, and people. And the woman are generally dressed better."

The earlier tension was gone, as if the same magic that swept me into my dance had driven away all memory of insults and anger. In any case, I had forgiven him for anything he had said, and it was clear that he had done the same.

"On the contrary, Mademoiselle, I do not believe I could enjoy the experience more. You are a lovely dancer."

"Remy."

"What?" He looked at me, startled.

"I'm not much of a mademoiselle. My name is just Remy."

"Very well...Remy."

With that, we both fell silent, as our feet considered to move in measured steps across the stone. Then, I heard his voice, soft and low, filling my mind and my heart, as he hummed the waltz melody in my ear, his face so close to mine that I could feel his warm breath.


	20. Dawn

He knew that it was a bad idea, but he couldn't resist the impulse to join Remy. She looked so free as she danced to music only she could hear, and he wanted so badly to know what it was about her that allowed her to just be happy, even in the least promising of circumstances. How could she act so carefree when there was so much around her to make her unhappy?

Whatever that quality was, it drew him to her with a pull that he could not move against. Before he could analyze his own motives, he had taken her in his arms, and was moving with her across the rooftop.

He never thought he could feel so...comfortable near this woman he had known for such a short time. He knew that he had been unkind to her, suggesting that her situation was her own fault, but she seemed to have forgotten his caustic behavior. And now she was acting like this was perfectly normal, to dance on the roof of a ruined opera house with a disfigured man. She smiled charmingly, laughed quietly, moved beautifully, and had a wonderfully self-deprecating sense of humor. He wondered at the kind of man who would cast her aside, who would use her so ill, treat her so badly. Little as he knew about marriage, it was obvious that she would make a wonderful wife and mother.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by the gentle pink light breaking through the darkness. Dawn was coming, gentle and beautiful, carrying with it the urge to return to his home, deep below the opera house, where the harsh light could not touch him. He stopped moving, and Remy gazed up at him questioningly.

"We ought to be going."

"Why? Surely we can stay a little longer and watch the sunrise."

He didn't want to; he was ugly enough without the unfeeling light of the sun to highlight his deformities. But her blue eyes were so full of hope, he could not bear to deny her request.

"As you wish, Mademoi... Remy."

She stepped away from him, and walked back to the short wall at the edge of the roof, and leaned against it, resting her elbows on the stone, and cradling her chin in her hands, as she watched the delicate hint of pink at the edge of the horizon become a thick stripe of gold, and the sun rose higher in the sky.

Slowly, the darkness was chased away by brilliant streaks of light, and the magic of the night disappeared with it, replaced by the stark reality of morning. Erik drifted back into the shadow of the entranceway while he watched Remy. He had never seen her in open daylight before, and she made a lovely picture now. She seemed to glow, as if the sunlight reflecting off her hair increased in brilliance when it touched her.

When he realized where his thoughts were headed, he turned away from her, and put his hand to his face, reminding himself of why he stayed in the shadows, while Remy stood in the sunshine.

* * *

I knew that Erik wanted to go back below, and could feel the tension in his stance when he first became aware of the slowly rising sun. But I knew that I could not return to his lair without seeing daylight come; the perpetual darkness would drive me to insanity if I did not have this chance to watch the morning dawn. And it was a beautiful sunrise, bright and clear, and the streaks of pink and gold across the sky raised my spirits unimaginably, even if it could not compare to the sunrises in Alsace.

I heard his soft footsteps retreating into the shadows, and wished that I had the courage to entreat him forward into the sun with me; his obsession with darkness being, in my own opinion, entirely unhealthy. It was no wonder he was so gloomy all the time, if he never took advantage of this view from the roof, to watch the morning come. I was intensely aware of his gaze, watching me from the darkness, but I was to busy enjoying myself to really care.

Finally, the growing noise from the street below and the insistent gnawing of my empty stomach drew me away from my vantage point, and I walked slowly back to where Erik stood waiting for me. I took one final look over my shoulder at the glorious sun, then returned once more to the gloom of the Opera House.

* * *

"So then the bastard says to me, 'You're not done yet,' and tells me I have to go back and find the girl AND her masked friend. After he already killed Jacques! Who does he think I am, the three musketeers?"

Henri was rather enjoying the attention his story was getting from the lovely girl at the bar. She seemed so sympathetic, and he needed the sympathy. Several strong drinks had greatly loosened his tongue, and he had always loved attention from beautiful women.

"What if the man isn't a man at all? I think he must have been a ghost!"

"A ghost? How frightening!" Now he had her full attention, as she leaned in close to pour him another drink.

"He came out of the darkness like a spirit. Couldn't hear him coming or nothing. Just appeared, wearing a dark cloak, and a mask."

"A mask, you say?" This voice came from the other side of him. He turned to see who had spoken, and found himself face to face with a drunken older gentleman. His clothes were finely made, out of expensive fabric, but were worn down and patched. He had the look of a man who once enjoyed wealth, only to have it taken away. "I know all about ghosts and masks and the like!" His voice was slurred, and he spoke very loudly.

"Oh, shut it, Firmin. No one wants to hear your blasted tale of woe again," a man a few seats away interjected. Ignoring the interruption, Firmin continued.

"I once had a ghost. Used to own the Opera Populaire. Me, I mean, not the damned ghost. Me and my partner. Made a fortune in the junk business, that we did. Bought the damned thing as an amusement, to make our way in society. Bloody ghost ruined the whole damn thing. Where's my other drink? My throat is getting dry, and I'm trying to tell a story! Whiskey, damn it! Where was I?"

"Ghost?"

"Ah yes, the ghost. Stagehands used to frighten the ballet girls with stories, whole damn cast believed in him. The Phantom of the Opera, they called him. We knew better, though, Andre and me. Didn't believe in the ghost, wouldn't meet his demands, pay his salary, all that. I mean, really, giving in to the demands of a madman! The thought! Where's my whiskey? That's a good girl, fill it all the way up. Perfect! Yes, demands! He wanted this chorus girl to be allowed to sing, sabotaged our prima donna so she wouldn't get in the way, wrote a damn opera for the girl. Pretty girl she was, too. Married our patron. Yes, she got a good deal out of the whole affair."

"But what about the ghost?" Henri was getting excited; this was exactly the kind of information Leon had asked for!

"The ghost! Killed our lead tenor. Had the nerve to take his place in the opera, to kidnap the girl. Anyway, dropped the damn chandelier on our audience. Whole place went up in flames! That was the end of our opera house. No one would buy it from us, no one would perform in it, no one even wants to tear it down for us." He paused for a moment. "I think I need a stronger drink."

"But what happened to the ghost?"

"Damned if I know! We had the police searching, and a whole mob went down to look for him, but no one ever found him. Vanished. Like a ghost!" He found his own comment very funny, and started laughing, his face red.

"So no one knows where he lives?"

"In the opera house, haven't you been listening? Somewhere in there. I bet that ballet woman knew. She was always creeping around with notes from the ghost, telling us what he wanted."

"What ballet woman?"

"Giry, that was her name. Still lives around here somewhere, in Paris, I'm sure, teaching ballet. Managed better than me, that's for damn sure. Look at me! A year ago, I would have been sipping champagne at some stylish salon, and now I'm here with you, drinking cheap whiskey. Used to be, I could get a ballet wench on each arm..."

Henri left without hearing the rest of Firmin's rant. Now he had something he could use. He would have to tell Leon, so that they could pay a visit to Madame Giry. He had done his job well.


	21. Othello and Orpheus

**A/N: Sorry it keeps taking me so long to update, I know I am a horrible person, but I find writing dialogue a lot harder than writing anything else, so it takes me longer to finish a chapter.**

By the time we finally crossed the lake once again, I was exhausted. The climb down the stairs should have been easy, but after climbing up them then dancing a waltz on the rooftop, my legs ached and I felt like pins were pricking my feet with every step I took. My pain in my ankle was returning, and I began limping about half way down te stairs. Erik, noticing my fatigue and my limp, placed one hand on my shoulder, and the other one my elbow, so that I could rest my weight on him instead of on my ankle. The trip was a long one, but he made no attempt at conversation, and I was too tired to think of something to say.

The first thing he did upon returning to the cavern was offer me something to eat, an offer I accepted with great pleasure. It seemed to me that whenever he felt too awkward to do anything else, he fed me. Not that I minded, of course, a girl has to eat, but I didn't like the idea that he was uncomfortable around me. I had always considered myself a reasonably comfortable person to be around, and I was a little insulted by his constant wavering back and forth between warmth and distance. He really needed to just decide whether he liked me or not and be done with it.

Erik moved to his organ, and began to play, a song I recognized from my brief contact with opera.

"Must you always play such awfully depressing music?" I asked, part jokingly. He turned to glare at me, then continued playing, annoyed at the interruption

"You don't like it?"

"I enjoy hearing you play; you are really quite good. But I can't say I appreciate your choice of songs. They tend to be so gloomy."

He stopped playing, and turned so that he was facing her.

"This is a love song, Remy."

"From Othello, right? I know the song. It's a very touching romance story. Until Othello strangles Desdemona to death, that is."

He was staring intently into my eyes now, apparently a little startled by my comments.

"I didn't know you were familiar with Opera."

"Just because I don't live below an Opera House doesn't mean I am entirely ignorant. I have seen a few performances, heard a few songs played in stylish parlors. I can't say that Othello was a favorite of mine, though."

"Oh, really? And what is a favorite of yours?"

"I've only ever seen a few Operas, but I rather liked _Orpheus and Eurydice."_

Erik gave me a withering glance, as if to suggest that my preferences were the very height of stupidity. "Gluck's score grates on your ears after having heard the genius of Verdi."

"I think perhaps you misunderstand me; I have no real education in music, so I am not judging the relative genius of their composers. I merely enjoyed the story of Orpheus much better than that of Othello. I suppose I never cared much for either Desdemona or Othello, and found it hard to sympathize with them."

"Perhaps you did not understand the passion of their relationship, if you could have no sympathy for them." He was getting defensive, as if I was attacking his own character, rather than just an opera, and the sight was an amusing one.

"Forgive me, I did not make my meaning quite clear. I feel a great deal of sympathy for Desdemona, but cannot empathize with her character. And I do not find Othello deserving of any sympathy at all."

He actually looked as though he was enjoying our verbal sparring, his face becoming, for once, animated with an emotion other than rage or sorrow. "You do not?" He asked, as if he could not believe I could be so cold-hearted towards the Moor.

"I do not. What kind of man is so quick to judge, so quick to believe that his wife had betrayed him?"

"His love for her.."

"What love?" I interrupted, before he could finish. "If he had truly loved her, he would have had more faith in her, he would have asked for an explanation. He felt nothing more than passion for her."

"Nothing more than passion? You speak of passion as though it was something undesirable! Did Orpheus not feel passion for Eurydice? Is that not what led him to the gates of Hell to fetch her back! " Finally, I had broken through his casual reserve; he gestured with his arms, and he face was genuinely expressive.

"By itself, passion is undesirable. You are confusing passion with love, the two are not the same at all."

"Well, since you are so wise, perhaps to would care to enlighten me." His voice dripped with sarcasm, but lacked the cold cruelty he used when he was actually angry.

"Passion is one part of love, one small piece of the puzzle. To really love someone, you must feel some passion towards them, but love is not complete without respect and trust. When you love someone, you only want what is best for them, and are willing to sacrifice anything for them, as Orpheus did for Eurydice. But Othello did not respect or trust Desdemona; if he had, he would not have been so quick to believe what Iago tried to convince him of, and he certainly would not have taken the extreme measure of killing her as a punishment for her supposed infidelity. My mother used to say that passion and love are both like fire; the difference is that love will keep you warm in the cold, but passion will consume you in its flames."

For a few moments, he remained silent, staring at me in a most unnerving manner.

"Very well said. You are a great deal more intelligent than I gave you credit for."

"I'm not sure whether to be insulted thought you thought I was a fool, or gratified that you changed your mind."

"You ought to be flattered; there are very few people in this world of whom I have the slightest respect, but you are proving to be one of them."

I was terribly flattered, both at what he said and by the very fact that he was comfortable enough to say it, but it would not have been very discreet to show how exactly how happy his words had made me.

"Thank you, I appreciate the compliment."

He smirked at the prim note that had crept into my voice, the result of years of training in how to accept a compliment like a lady.

"Surely you realize that in the story of Orpheus, he loses Eurydice by looking back at when he was specifically instructed not to? Is that not also a fault?"

"I agree, it is a fault, and it was stupid of him, but it was a more realistic, believably human fault than Othello's. Hasn't everyone lost something that they love through some stupid mistake, or premature action? Most men are not murderous like Othello, but many of us have small faults that deny us of that which we desire most. Of course, the opera gives us a happy ending, but in the legend, he loses her for good."

"You have given it a great deal more thought than I, so I shall leave you to interpretation, and critique only the music."

"Then I will concede that the music of Othello is truly magnificent, and I am sure, the work of a genius. I fear that my enjoyment of the opera stories is severely limited by my tastes, but I do enjoy the music."

"And why is it that you dislike the stories? I though every woman was fond of sweeping romances and stirring tragedies." Now he was mocking me, but with facetiousness rather than malice.

"I suppose I am too practical to find any of it believable; isn't there sadness enough in real life without contriving a way to kill every likable character in the story? And if I could choose between romance accompanied by quiet whispers and loving looks, and romance characterized by grand prologues and magnificent arias, I would choose the first."

"A true romantic." While I was speaking, he had walked over to where I was seated, and now he sat down beside me.

"Hardly. I don't believe there are any romantic tendencies left in me." The strangest thoughts passed through my mind as I said this, contradicting my words even as I spoke them. Looking at Erik's profile as he sat beside me, I began to think that he was actually rather handsome, despite the scarred flesh I knew was hidden behind the mask. I found this revelation profoundly unsettling, as I realized that I was subconsciously wishing that I was a little cleaner, and little less bruised, and a little better dressed. I was suddenly self-conscious about my ragged hair, and the scar that I knew must be very visible on my cheek.

I knew I was being ridiculous; none of that mattered. Soon, I would be gone, safe in Marseille with friends, and this whole situation would seem like some strange dream. What did it matter if I was not at this moment particularly attractive; I had been hovering on the edge of death a week before, it was a miracle I looked and felt as good as I did. My reason, though, was very quickly losing the war with my instinct, and I knew that I could not let myself stay in such close quarters with Erik.

"I don't suppose you would like to play a song from _Orpheus_ for me? I know you didn't care as much for the music, but I love that aria of his from act three, when he believes he has lost Eurydice."

Erik seemed a little confused by my sudden request, but graciously acquiesced. I didn't really like that aria any better than any other I had heard, but I needed to separate myself from the warmth of his body without being rude, and he did seem flattered by my asking.

Of course, like so many other things I had done, requesting that he play the song for me was a rather large mistake, especially as I had not taken into account that he would sing it as well as play it. When he began, any reason I might have had left in me fled, allowing my foolish emotions to have their way. The actual performance I had seen of this opera could not compare to Erik's rendition; his playing was perfect, he did not miss a note, and his voice was so sad and longing that I could actually believe that he was Orpheus, mourning for his beloved. Tears sprang unbidden to my eyes, and my throat was so choked I could not have spoken, even had I wanted to break the spell his music was casting over me.

With my final scrap of resolve, I stood up, and walked silently to my room, where I could cry without him seeing, and recover my senses before I did anything I might regret.

**A/N: I actually have not seen either of these Operas, nor doI know which has better music, but it gives my characters something to talk about, so I put them in.**


	22. An Unwanted Visitor

**A/N: Thanks for all the lovely reviews, I really appreciate them. **

**Sbkar: I am glad you enjoyed their little debate, and there will be more like them**

**Aranel Abeille: I love getting any kind of positive review, even without constructive criticism. Sometimes a girl just needs some applause.**

**Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin: Don't count on Remy being the one doing the bowing.**

**MajickAlianne: My ego forces me to agree. **

**Rachel: If you want quicker updates, you could volunteer to do my homework for me ; )**

What in God's name was wrong with me? I had just escaped the clutches of one psychopath, and here I was throwing myself headlong into the grasp of another. No, I stopped myself, that was not a fair comparison; Erik was not like Leon, and I had not loved Leon. Wait–did that mean I loved Erik? No, no, no, that wasn't true, couldn't be true. I was attracted to him, yes, but that was because I was starved for affection, and desperate for love. You couldn't fall in love in an instant, in the space of a conversation and a song. I was going crazy in my old age, I had left my sanity behind in Alsace. I could fight this; just because my damned emotions were telling me that I ought to love him didn't mean I had to give in.

_Would it really be so bad?_ A little voice in the back of my mind asked, but I pushed it away before I could answer the question. I had shunned love before, at the age of sixteen. I had taken the heart that had been offered to me and thrown it to the ground; I did not deserve love now.

I couldn't think about that now, I was too tired, in both mind and body. I didn't even bother to undress, just took off my shoes and slipped into bed. I drifted into sleep almost instantly, but even then I could not escape Erik; as I dreamt, I saw his face and heard his voice, but those faded away, and in the darkness of my subconscious, I could hear Stefan's pleading voice, asking me why I had to go, why I had to leave him.

* * *

Erik had never known that having a woman disagree with him would be so riveting; there was something very attractive in the way she rose to his every challenge, her eyes sparkling. And when she asked him to play for her, he thought he was dreaming.

But then, when he finished his song, she was gone. He assumed she had returned to her room while he was absorbed in his music. He told himself that she was tired, that she just didn't want to disturb him, but doubts played in his mind all the same. He knew there was nowhere she could have gone and no reason to have left, but he still could not shake the fear that she was truly gone.

He asked himself why he even cared, whether it would make such a difference if he were alone again. He had not wanted Remy here to begin with, so in all reason, he ought to want her to leave. But he enjoyed her company, and even now, when she was just in the other room, he missed her presence. It was as though she lit the room in a way that dozens of candles could not, and when she wasn't there, his eyes had to readjust to the darkness that she left behind her.

That was, of course, the danger of such light; if you became too used to its presence, then you began to rely on it, and once it left, as all things inevitably did, you would find yourself groping in the darkness for something else to light your way.

* * *

"Madame Giry?"

The woman in question peered cautiously through the small crack of the open door at the man outside it; he looked well dressed and respectable enough.

"Yes, please come in. You are looking for a ballet teacher, yes?"

"Not exactly."

Before she even realized what was happening, the man had forced his way through the door, and another man entered, this one rough-looking and badly dressed.

"Now, Madame Giry," The wealthy looking man began, "My name is Leon Villeforte. This is my associate, Henri. If you do exactly as we say, and tell us all we need to know, no harm will come to you."

She nodded, her eyes filled with quiet rage.

"We are trying to find a man, and we are told you are the only one who knows where he lives."

"Really?" She replied, her voice dignified and calm.

"A masked man, who supposedly lives in the Opera Populaire building. You know him?"

She gave a sarcastic smile. "You mean the Opera Ghost? You gentlemen are wasting your time. The man is a legend, nothing more. If you wish to search for him, you may, but you are chasing a phantom invented to frighten ballet rats."

"Your words sound true enough," Leon replied with a sinister smile of his own, "but your eyes betray you; this Opera Ghost exists, and you are protecting him."

"Monsieur, I have no idea what you are talking about, and if you continue to..."

She was interrupted by the appearance of a petite blonde poking her head through the open door.

"Maman? What is the matter?"

Before Madame Giry could warn her daughter, Henri had grabbed her by the arm and hauled her through the door, pulling a knife from his boot, and holding it to her throat.

"Now, who is this little angel?" Leon asked, running a long finger down the girl's cheek.

"Meg! Let her go, she has nothing to do with this, she knows nothing!"

Meg was sobbing quietly, her blue eyes filled with frightened tears.

"Ah, but Madame, you obviously care for the girl, so now she has everything to do with it. What would you say to a bargain? I will keep Henri from slitting her pretty little throat, if you will tell me where the masked man lives."

Madame Giry was silent, her head bowed, as if concentrating very hard would free her daughter. The only sound was Meg's quiet crying, filling the small shabby room.

"Very well; I accept your terms. Now let her go."

"You will tell me how to find this man, and then I will tell Henri to free her."

"Backstage at the opera house, there is a long hallway full of dressing rooms. If the signs are intact, it should be easy to find. Each door is marked with a name or a number; you will find one near the front of the hallway marked 'La Carlotta'. Inside, on the wall facing the door, there is a very large, gilt-edged mirror. Behind that mirror is a tunnel, which we lead you straight to him."

"There, that wasn't so hard, was it? I knew you would be reasonable about this."

"You have what you came for, now leave us!"

"Very well, Madame. Henri, let the girl go."

Meg fairly flew across the room to her mother's arms, where she buried her face in her neck.

Leon was about to shut the door behind him, but he paused briefly, and looked Madame Giry in the eye. "If you have lied to me, I will come back; I will find your pretty daughter, and I will kill her. Then, once I have let you weep over her body, I will kill you. Au revoir, Madame."

"Oh, Meg, what have I done?"


	23. Lovers Past

I awoke as tired as I had been when I fell into my troubled sleep. I had not thought about Stefan in what seemed like ages; some memories were best not dwelt upon, and that was one of them. I had enough in my life to regret without seeing his face whenever I closed my eyes.

As I climbed out of bed, I saw a note on my bedside table. It was from Erik, informing me that he would be out for at least a few hours, and that if I was so inclined, I might take the opportunity to bathe. I decided to take that comment as a polite suggestion rather than a broad hint. I really liked the idea of being clean once more; I hadn't bathed in weeks.

I found my way back to the small room with the bathtub, wondering exactly how I was going to accomplish the task of bathing. In my experience, it required a great deal of hauling water and heating it; something done by maids in my grandfather's home. I had no idea whether I was supposed to get water from the lake, or some other, cleaner source, and I had not seen anything that looked as though it would be suitable for heating water.

Both problems, however, were eliminated when I entered the bath room. He had already filled the tub with water, which appeared to have come from a pipe that emptied into the tub. Reaching in to feel the water, I realized with amazement that it was very warm; the pipes surrounding the tub somehow heated the water in it. The man was truly a genius.

On a table beside me, I found a bar of sweetly-scented soap, expensive looking bath salts, an ornate comb, a blue hair ribbon, and a soft towel. I was impressed by Erik's thoughtfulness, though I wondered why he would possibly have such things on hand. As I soaked in the luxurious warm water, I contemplated that question. I had already figured out that he had been in love with someone, someone who had not loved him back. The floral soap and bath salts must have been for her; he must have prepared his home to be comfortable for her.

I thought for a long while about Erik's past love; it was easier than thinking about my own. After about an hour of soaking in water that was finally becoming cold, I realized that I might want to be dressed before Erik returned home. I ran an expensive-looking comb with carvings on the handle through my ragged hair, plagued by the thought that there was very little I could do to make my hair presentable, except tie it back with the blue ribbon I had found. I wrapped myself in the towel, and returned to my room, where I decided that I ought to wear the blue dress I had found in the costume room. I was finally clean, and smelled faintly of roses, and the idea of wearing a beautiful dress again was very appealing.

Finished with my toilette, I went back down to the main room to await Erik's return; and when the minutes ticked by, and he did not come, I began to look for some way to amuse myself. The bookshelf out here was even larger than the one in my room, and I searched for something that I could actually read; my Italian was shaky at best, and my English worse, leaving French and German as my only options. As much as I had enjoyed Erik's music, the volumes on music theory had no charm for me; I passed over architecture recalling the odd effect it had on me last time; my interest in history was minimal; his collection of philosophy contained none of my favorites. That left only art, and I selected one which I thought would be the most entertaining; my surprise was incredible when I pulled the book from the shelf, and found stuffed between the pages several dozen drawings.

They were all of the same woman; an exceptionally beautiful brunette with pale skin and perfect features, whose startling good looks made me feel immediately inadequate. Some pictures showed just her face, outlined in rough pencil sketches, while some showed her in full opera costume, done in beautiful charcoal. This was the woman; the woman Erik had loved. She must have been a performer with the opera, and a beautiful one.

"What are you doing!"

Erik was standing over me, his eyes glowing with rage, his handsome half-face contorted.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I asked you what you were doing!" He snatched the portraits from my hands, and stalked away. I got up from my seat; I was short enough standing beside him, let alone sitting.

"I was reading, and found these. Is there a problem?" He turned back towards me, and glowered into my eyes, trying to intimidate me with his height and the impressive width of his shoulders.

'You had no right-"

"No right to what? Accidentally find some portraits you drew? I hardly see the severity of that crime." I had not escaped from prison and dragged my sorry self all the way to Paris to bend over backwards every time a man looked at me with anger in his eyes. I was so sick of being the victim, I could just die.

"You-" Now he was both angry and confused; apparently he hadn't anticipated my response.

"Forgive me if I don't understand; you seem to think that I have committed some horrible crime, which I most certainly have not. I am sorry if I have intruded upon your privacy in a manner you find offensive, but you need not dramatize the mistake!"

"Dramatize? What in God's name-" I just couldn't keep my mouth shut; he was just begging for me to tell him exactly what I thought of him, and I would do just that. The voice of reason in the back of my mind, the one I usually managed to ignore, was telling me that I might only really be angry with him because I couldn't stand to admit to myself that I was attracted to him. As I had done so many times before, I managed to silence that voice before it could really get to me.

"Forgive me if I offend you, I do not mean to insult, but you seem to believe that life is some kind of opera, with you starring as the misunderstood villain. And now, if I might ask, why is it that you always try to intimidate me? I have tried to be kind, and tried to be understanding, but you insist upon pushing me to anger with your bullying."

"My bullying? How dare you! I saved your miserable life and brought you here; I had no responsibility to do so." Once again, I saw a pain behind his anger that made me think more carefully about what I was going to say.

"You have just made my point for me, and for that, I thank you."

"And what exactly do you mean by that?"

"I mean that you have proven to me how compassionate you can be, therefore I see no reason that you cannot act that way more often."

That remark silenced him; he just stared at me with disbelieving green eyes, while I finished composing my thoughts.

"You saved my life, and yet, you seem intent upon frightening me away. You went through great trouble to make sure that I was comfortable, to give me everything I needed, andI am very grateful to you. I know that I have no claim on your kindness, but why do you try so hard to make me hate you every time I begin to like you?"

His breathing had grown unsteady, as if the truth in my accusations had stolen the air from his lungs. His jaw tightened, and his eyes closed; I had the sudden urge to touch his face, and make him look at me, but thankfully, he walked away before I could make a complete fool of myself.

"Who was she?" I knew he might find my question impertinent, but I wanted to know more about this woman who held Erik's heart. He was silent for a long time before he said anything, and when he finally answered, his voice was shaking.

"Christine Daae. She was a chorus girl, in the ballet troupe. I...I trained her to sing, taught her to use her voice. She had a voice like an angel..." Of course, she would be both beautiful _and_ talented. "I looked after her since she first came here, when she was just a child. And when she was seventeen, I lost her. I arranged for her to sing in _Hannibal_, and when the world saw how beautiful she was,it snatched her away."

"What happened?"

"She fell in love with the Viscomte de Chagny." He said the name as if it were the most terrible of curses, his voice dripping with both hatred and anguish. "He was rich, powerful, handsome—she chose to leave me, and marry him. I offered her all that I had, and she chose him." His back was still turned; his shoulders were slumped and his head hung in bitter defeat.

"And you were surprised?"

"Surprised? Well, I suppose it was foolish of me to ever think a woman like Christine would choose me, because I have only half a face! Whatever was I thinking? I suppose you think this is funny, that a disgusting man such as myself would ever aspire to such love?"

"I merely think that you highly overestimated the ability of a seventeen year old girl to see beyond what she has been taught to look for."

The only reply he had for me was a shocked stare.

"I was a seventeen year old girl not so very long ago; I wanted comfort and stability, not mystery and uncertainty; I guarantee she wanted the same when she chose the Viscomte."

"You're saying you would have done the same?"

I hesitated, but I thought that after he told me so much that he had obviously never revealed to anyone, it was only fair if I told him what I had done, and let him decide whether he could stand to be around me anymore.

"I'm saying that I _did _do the same."

I sat down, afraid that his penetrating eyes would burn a hole into my head.

"When I was sixteen, I made the same choice Christine did; and for worse reasons, I might add. There was a boy in our clan named Stefan. We grew up together; he played the guitar, and I was training to be a dancer. I used to make him play for me, so that I could practice; I needed it desperately, you know, I was horribly clumsy. We fell in love-as much in love as two children could be. We agreed that when we both came of age, we would be married."

"And you left him?"

"Well, I like to think it was more complicated than that, but yes, I left him. Because I wanted to live a different life. I had just watched my mother die of an illness that could have been cured if only we had been able to find a doctor willing to treat a gypsy; I was tired of that life, and I wanted to start all over again. So I left; Stefan pleaded, but my mind was made up."


	24. Fate

**A/N: So few reviews for my last chapter, and it was one of my favorites! It makes me very sad : ( Well, I will give you guys a chance to make up for it by reviewing now and making me feel better. Ok? Ok.**

He wasn't entirely sure what her motive was for telling him about her shameless abandonment of the poor man who loved her, and he wasn't sure whether he was touched that she trusted him enough to tell him, or disgusted with her that she would choose money and comfort over love. Of one thing he was sure: Remy was the strongest woman he had ever met. Her physical appearance was deceiving; it concealed the strongest will to live he had ever encountered and a heart more honest than he had ever thought possible.

"Are you going to tell me why you are staring at me so, Erik, or are you going to make me guess?"

"I was just thinking that it seems some of us are destined not to find love."

"Not destined?" She looked at him incredulously, as if she couldn't believe his stupidity. "You mean that you think your failure with Christine and mine with Stefan and Leon were the work of fate?"

"You don't believe in fate?"

"Fate is an excuse for people too weak-willed to make their own destinies. It is way to avoid responsibility for actions by placing the blame on some undeterminable force. I used to think that we were each fated to live a certain life, that there was nothing we could do to control our futures. I used it to justify my actions, to make myself feel better. But if I believed that my life was destined to end a certain way, I would have given up in prison, and I wouldn't be standing here before you. If I believed in fate, my body would b a pile of ash and Leon would be crowing over his victory!"

She really did take every excuse to launch into these impassioned speeches, and Erik found it more appealing than he would like to admit. Yet even as he admired her fire, he didn't like the idea that she would dismiss fate so easily, when he had consoled himself with the concept of being destined for loneliness.

"So, you say that no one has any extenuating circumstances, that we have complete control over everything?"

"You are trying to make me sound ridiculous by putting words in my mouth, and creating illogical conclusions."

"Well then, give me a little help and clarify your thinking for me."

"I never said that we had complete control over our lives. I believe that God sets us each on a path, some of us with larger burdens than others, and lets us make our own choices, and those choices dictate what direction our lives take."

"So, you are one of _those_." He heard bitterness creep into his voice, and knew she wouldn't appreciate it.

"One of what, may I ask?" She sounded annoyed at his dismissive tone. "I believe in God, if that's what you mean."

"Really? Would you mind giving me a reason? I'm not sure I understand why an intelligent girl like you would fall for such lies."

Now she was more angry than annoyed. "It's called faith! Have you ever heard of it? You are willing to believe that fate guides your existence, but you can't believe that God does? All the evidence I have seen points to God; there are times when I could not have survived if it were not for little things that could not have happened by chance."

"So you think that God is some benevolent higher power?"

"Yes."

"Then how do you explain this?" He pulled his mask off, revealing once more the horrible distortion of his face.

* * *

I knew I had to try to find some way to explain this to him, some way to justify the pain he had suffered, as I tried not to stare at the red and purple tinted skin and ridges of twisted bone. 

"The only man to raise a finger to help me was a priest; a man I had known since childhood. When I went to him in Loraine after escaping prison, I was...I was so angry at God for allowing this to happen to me, but Père Renault told me something I shall never forget. He said that God only gives burdens to shoulders strong enough to carry them."

"Well, apparently, this all-knowing God of yours misjudged my strength." The pain in his voice tore at my heart, and I wished I could make it stop, heal his face; heal his heart. Interesting, I thought, that even staring at the horror of his face, I was still attracted to Erik, still wanted to hold him and stroke his hair and let him cry on my shoulder...I really had to stop thinking like this, it wasn't at all good for me.

"I think you misjudge your own strength. Listen to me, Erik, I don't know why life happens the way it does, I don't know why God would give you that face, but I know must be a reason."

"What reason could he possibly have for this?" He hissed at me, and his green eyes looked almost yellow in the candlelight, giving him the appearance of some wild animal ready to attack. "Is this his idea of fun? Some sick joke? Or is this a punishment for my parents? Did they not pray enough? Tell me, Remy, why did this God of yours decide that I should be forced to live my whole life alone?"

"God gave you the face, but he did not force you underground to live like a hunted animal. Perhaps he-"

"Didn't force me-!"

"Don't interrupt me! I let you have your say, now let me have mine! Perhaps he gave you your face for the sake of the people around you, to give them a chance to live the virtue of charity, a chance that they did not take. But God did not exile you to this prison. The evil of some men and your own fear did."

"Fear? You dare to tell me that I am afraid?" Wonderful, Remy, why don't you just make him want to kill you. I was just full of brilliant ideas today. Interesting, though, that a few days ago, he would have come closer as he tried to intimidate me, now he kept his distance, as if afraid of coming closer.

"Aren't you? Why else would you remain here? You are afraid that if you try again, if you make another attempt to be a part of the world, you will be rejected. And you think that it would be worse to try, and find yourself alone once more, than to not try, and live your whole life wondering what could have been. You're even a little afraid of me, aren't you?"

"You have no right to–I don't know why you– afraid of you? That's the most ludicrous thing I've ever heard!"

"Then why do you refuse to come near me?"

* * *

He had been hoping she would not notice his hesitance to draw nearer to her, but she noted his distance with some measure of satisfaction in having made a very good point. He noticed that his mask was still in his hand, and threw it to the ground in frustration. He had known this would not end well when he walked in and saw her in that beautiful dress that exactly matched the color of her eyes; with every moment that passed, the urge to take her in his arms and press his lips to hers grew. She was fascinating to watch when she was angry, the way she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin as she prepared to begin a verbal duel, the way she always looked directly into his eyes when she spoke to him, as if there was nothing about him that even began to frighten her. 

But he could not allow himself to wallow in his own weakness, to give in to urges he knew were foolish and wrong. For all that she swore she trusted him and enjoyed his company, she would be sick if she ever knew what thoughts were playing in his mind, if he ever allowed himself to touch her. So he did what any man who wanted to protect himself would have done under the circumstances.

In an instant, he was by her side, and before she could react, he was standing behind her with a hand around her throat and his other arm wrapped around her waist pinning her arms to her sides. He could feel the rapid beating of her heart, and the tenseness of her shoulders against his chest.

"Afraid, my dear? I think not." She tried to pull away from him, but her movement was futile. "But you seem to forget, Remy, exactly what I am. Did I not warn you that I was a monster? Did I not tell you that I had killed before? What makes you so sure I will not do so again?" He heard himself saying the words, but they were so disconnected from his actual thoughts that it seemed he was watching someone else threaten Remy. She must have felt the hesitancy that ran through his body in that moment, and she took immediate advantage of it. He felt her fingernails dig into his wrist, and he instinctively loosened his grip; Remy responded by whirling around and bringing her fist upwards to connect with the good side of his face. She has a strong arm for such a small woman, he thought fleetingly as he stepped away from her. She apparently wasn't done yet, and stepped down hard on his foot, before retreating a few steps.

They stood there for a moment, as she looked at him reproachfully, her cheeks flushed and her hair falling in her face. Without another word, she turned and ran to her room, leaving him staring after her wondering what he had done.

**A/N: So much for imminent fluffiness. Maybe next chapter...review to find out!**


	25. Reflection

**A/N: I loved all your reviews, and am so glad that you all enjoyed the chapter, and that most people agree that Erik needs someone to standup to him, and maybe even push him around a little every now and then.**

As soon as I reached my little room, I pulled from my stack of clothing the revolver that I had used to shoot my attacker in the hallway. Three bullets left; I prayed I would not have to use any, but I would not let Erik hurt me. I had resolved never again to be a victim, and if I had to defend myself, I would. I realized that my hands were shaking, and I felt tears burning behind my eyes. I felt so incredibly stupid; how foolish to believe myself safe in Erik's company. What perverse instincts had driven me to speak so freely to him?

I lay down, allowing the tears to fall down my cheeks and trickle ungracefully down my nose and onto my pillow. The gun lay reassuringly in my hand under the velvet blanket, ready to use if the need arose. Something in Erik's face when I struck him told me that he would not try to hurt me, that his actions had been more to frighten than to actually harm, but my instincts had been honed by weeks of being hunted, and I could not relax. I don't know how long I lay there, sobbing quietly into the pillow, wishing that I could fall asleep, but feeling that it might be dangerous to do so. After a long time of silence, I heard a crashing noise coming from the main room, a repeated sound like something expensive and fragile breaking, followed by a muffled thud and Erik's broken sobbing.

* * *

Oh God, what had he done? Remy was only ever kind to him, and this was how he repaid her. How she must despise him now, how she must wish to be gone! But did it matter? She would have left anyway; he never expected her to stay for any extended amount of time. He could tell himself that he didn't want her to stay with him, that he preferred to be alone, but always in the traitorous recesses of his mind was the hope that she might somehow be persuaded to remain here with him. Now all that hope was gone. He would not be surprised at all if she were only staying in her room until she thought it was safe to escape: if she were planning now how best to leave without having to come in contact with him again. Even now he could hear her sobbing quietly.

He picked his mask up off the ground, and it seemed to stare at him through its empty eye, and accuse him of every horrible thing he had ever done. The darkness and pain that she had so briefly warded away came swirling back, filling his soul with helpless despair. He felt the guilt and loneliness threatening to drive him back to the edge of suicide that she had pulled him away from, and suddenly, all he wanted was to feel real, physical pain, in hopes that it would drown the anguish of his mind.

He stalked over to the large, velvet-draped mirror, and lifted the covering with trembling hands. All he could see was the horror of his disgusting face looking back at him, like something pulled from the grave. Before even thinking, he hurled the mask at it, raising a small snake of cracks down the center. But he could still see himself clearly on either side of the break, and in despair he raised both of his hands and slammed them into the mirror, over and over again until the glass fell out of the frame and embedded itself into his hands, so that with every blow it dug deeper in and left smears of blood on the remains of the mirror.

When he finally had destroyed his accursed reflection, he fell to the ground sobbing, covering his hideous face with his bloody hands, wishing that Death would come and claim him, to spare him the indignity of killing himself.

* * *

I rose slowly from my bed and tucked the gun into my sash, creeping forward to make sure that the sound of weeping was not just my imagination; it was not. From the top of the stairs I could see Erik kneeling brokenly on the floor with his hands over his face. As I drew closer, I kept one hand on the gun, but I knew that he would not try to hurt me again. In the dim light, I could make out streaks of darkness running through his fingers and down his hands. With a shock, I realized that it was blood.

"Erik, what have you done?" I whispered. He heard me, low as my voice was, and raised his head to look at me. His face looked like something from a nightmare: twisted, distorted and covered in thick dripping blood.

"Don't come near me! Don't...just stay away...don't touch me!" His voice quivered and he sounded half-mad.

"I'm not going to harm you, I just want to help..."

"And do you think I deserve it?" He raised tortured eyes to mine. "After what I've done?"

"Everyone deserves forgiveness." I stated, with more strength than I felt. "Now let me see your face." I crouched down to see his face better, and to my great relief, it was not the source of the blood.

"I'm sorry..I'm so sorry...please..." He whispered, his voice full of regret and unshed tears, as he stretched his hands out to take mine, then withdrew them quickly, but not before I saw the ragged edges of torn skin that marred them, and the sharp pieces of glass protruding from his palms.

"It's all right, I promise." I reassured him, holding him gently by his wrists and encouraging him to stand up. When he did so, I led him to the bench of the organ, where there was the most light, and instructed him to wait. He nodded, his breathing irregular and strained.

I ran back to my room, where I had left the extra bandages that he had given me at the beginning of our brief and somewhat painful acquaintance. I also picked up the bowl of water from my night stand and a soft cloth. When I returned, he was sitting motionless on the bench, facing the organ now, just staring blankly at the scribbled notes of music on the cream colored paper.

I sat beside him, and used the cloth to wipe the blood off his face, then took one of his hands in mine; it was a sad sight, torn and bleeding.

"I'm sorry Erik, but I need to take the glass out, and I fear it is going to hurt." He didn't respond, so I went ahead, washing the worst of the blood off so that I could see the wounds more clearly, and gently began pulling out shards of glass.

It was painstaking work, and my eyes began to hurt, but Erik sat unflinching, even when I extracted a particularly large, painful-looking piece. I could feel his eyes gazing at the top of my head, and I wished that he would say something, anything, just so I would know that he was alright. But the silence dragged on as I bent over this broken man's broken hands, and tears began slipping unbidden down my cheeks. Just as I removed the last shard of glass, a few lonely tears dripped down my nose and onto his torn hands, where they mixed with the blood. I prayed he would not notice, but he pulled his hand out of my grasp, and gingerly placed it on my chin, raising my head up so that he could see my eyes.

"Remy, why...what's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing at all!" I faked a smile and wiped my eyes. "Just..working in this light...must be hurting my eyes...it's really nothing."

"But you...you were crying." His eyes were watching my face intently, and I knew my less than convincing excuse had not fooled him.

"I just...I hate to think that I was the cause of this." I admitted. "I mean, if I had never come here, if I had never intruded the way I did, you would be...well, better. I should not have spoken as freely as I did. Now give me your hand, I need to bandage it before you loose more blood."

He let go of my chin, but the place where his hand had rested seemed to stay warm long after his touch was gone. We were both silent as I finished my work, wrapping the white gauze around his hands until the blood no longer flowed through.

When I let his hands drop, he bent down to retrieve the mask he had thrown in his rage, and placed it back onto his face. Then he stared at the broken mirror, tracing one long finger down the gilt frame, lost in thought.

**A/N: I wonder what he's thinking...actually, I know what he's thinking cuz I already wrote the next chapter. But if you want to find out, you'd better review...**


	26. Mercy

**A/N: To my wonderful readers: I meant to update this weekend, really I did, but my family went out of town for the weekend, and I was away from any computer access at all. Please forgive me.**

Forgiveness. She had offered him forgiveness. For the first time in his life, someone had given him what he wanted most; to be forgiven for his crimes. And there was only one way he knew how to repay her.

"What do you plan to do now?"

"What?" She was startled by his random comment, and he thought he could detect hurt in her voice. This was for the best, he told himself. She could not stay here in the darkness forever. But...but what if she wanted to? What if she would stay with him? There was only one way to find out.

"Was Paris your final destination when you left Alsace, or were you trying to reach somewhere else? Did you have a plan at all?" He turned to face her, but avoided her wide blue eyes, which were trying to catch his.

"Of course I had a plan! A very good one that was going to work in theory, but got a little mucked up in reality." She looked a little defensive, and he found it frighteningly endearing.

"Well, what was this brilliant plan of yours?"

"Marseille. I have a friend there-"

"The sort of friend you can trust?"

"Oh yes. Monique and I have been friends since childhood. She was a gypsy as well, but she left the clan right before I did, and married a merchant ship sailor. We remained in contact, and when I become a noblewoman, I sent them a belated wedding present; enough money for her husband to buy his own trading ship. From what she writes, they have become quite wealthy, and she has been begging me to visit for ages."

"Very good, I see you thought this through well; but may I ask why you came to Paris?"

"Leon's men were trailing me; I didn't want him to follow me, so I thought I could lose him in Paris. I just didn't foresee that they would catch up to me as quickly as they did."

"Very well. We cannot assume that Leon believes you dead; the man that escaped will probably have told him where you are, and that I am with you. Fortunately, the chances of him finding anyone in Paris who either believes I exist at all or knows how to find me are very slim, so you may not be in danger here. You ought to take advantage of this chance; while they search for a way to find you, you will take the first available train to Marseille."

"You seem anxious to be rid of me; is my presence here so disagreeable?" He was loath to admit it to himself, but her hesitance to agree to his plan filled him with hope.

"My dear Remy, surely you cannot wish to stay here?" His light tone belied the weight he felt was resting on her response.

"Oh, dear God, no!" Her eyes widened at the thought. "No, you are right, it's better that I go, but..."

"What?" If there was any mercy in heaven, she would tell him that she wished to stay, that she was lonely as well, and wanted his company...

"Well, you see, I don't..." Her voice trailed off, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"Don't what?" He dared to step closer to her, and placed a bandaged hand under her chin to lift her eyes to his Please, God, if you are listening, let her say she wants to be with him.

"I don't have any money." He quickly removed his hand from her face; once again, he was made a fool by his own desires. Of course she did not want to stay, did not want to be with him. Now all that remained to him was to speed her departure.

* * *

"Money is of no concern; you will have all that you need, you need only decide on the day of your departure." He replied briskly, as if he was just a disinterested host seeing an unwanted guest on her way. But, of course, I told myself. After all, that was what he was. Wasn't it? For I could have sworn I saw something like hope in his eyes, something like longing when he touched my face...but I had been mistaken before and surely must be mistaken now. He had been in love with a beautiful opera singer with a voice 'like an angel.' Who was I to compete with her memory?

"I should not wish to accept your charity, when you have already done so much for me..." And even if he did have any kind of feelings for me, what profit would that be? For I could never live here in this eternal darkness; I would die from wanting the sunlight on my face.

"Don't be ridiculous, Mademoiselle Remy; it is the very least I can do. I should have thought of facilitating your leaving sooner, I fear I have delayed you longer than you would wish." Dear Lord, how formal he sounded! He had even returned the mademoiselle to my name. If his blood on my clothes and the bandages on his hands did not prove otherwise, I would have thought that none of that tender, painful moment had even happened. Well, if he had forgotten, so would I. He could be as formal and stuffy as he wanted; two could play at that game, and I had spent years of my life practicing.

"Nonsense, this has been a perfectly pleasant stay. But I do accept your kind offer, with much gratitude. If it is convenient for you, I believe I shall leave tomorrow morning."

"Very well, no need to delay the inevitable." Was I imagining the trace of sorrow in his tone? Or was he truly sorry to see me leave?

"If you like, I could put it off for a few days; perhaps wait until your hands have healed tolerably." If he wanted me to stay, I was giving him the perfect opportunity to say so, without damaging his pride in any great way.

"No, I don't think that will be necessary, I assure you. Besides, the sooner you are on your way, the safer you will be. I assume that Monsieur Leon has no knowledge of your friend in Marseille?"

"None at all. He assumed that my only friends were the aristocrats in our circle. He won't think to look for me so far away. And even if he did, he would not have any real power there, I think." Well, it seemed he did want me gone.

"Well, then. It is settled."

"It is."

"I will go fetch the money you will need."

"Yes, that would be lovely." Lovely? I was beginning not to sound like myself. "I will go...pack. Put my things in order." Oh, that was stupid reason to leave the room; I had nothing more than a few pieces of clothing, how much time could I possibly need?

"Then I will see about finding some dinner."

"Yes, wonderful."

Without another word, we went our separate ways; he to the room behind the organ, and I to the little room I had grown so fond of.

**A/N: Sorry, no more fluff for you; not for a few chapters anyway. I know it seems bleak, and our two favorite people are acting like idiots, but they are both a little fragile right now. I do promise a fluffy ending though, so keep reading, and keep reviewing.** **Reviews make me happy, and I write when I am happy; ergo, more reviews equal faster updates. On a different note,I just got into every college I applied to, so writing might take a backseat to partying for the next few days. Actually, that's a lie. I live a boring life. So I'll be updating soon.**


	27. Lessons

**A/N: Jaina Kenobi, you have no idea happy you made me when you compared my angst to that of Pride and Prejudice, my favorite book of all time, by my favorite author ever. **

**Doe Eyed Dryad: I would not have thought of Anastasia as a comparison, but oddly enough, it is another of my favorite movies. Pretty cool.**

**Loved all the reviews, they make me so happy!**

Dinner with Erik that night was the most painful experience of my life. Imprisonment, jeering, branding, betrayal; none of my past experience cut so deeply at my heart as that silent meal. We sat across from each other, but did not meet each other's eyes. We spoke only to communicate the necessary, and to convey last minute details of my imminent departure.

He maintained the same courteous, detached facade, and I followed suit, not wishing to provoke any further self-mutilating incidents. I had caused enough trouble already, the least I could d now was respect his wish for silence. The worst of the pain came from the knowledge that he did not wish me to stay. I knew that I couldn't, even had he asked me to, but I would have liked to think that he felt the same feelings towards me as I did towards him. Considering that I wasn't even sure of my own feelings, though, it was probably for the best that he didn't. After all, the last thing this man needed was any more mental and emotional confusion, and I would not have wished my somewhat fevered state of mind on anyone.

No, it was for the best that I would soon be gone. I had tried my hardest to force his heart open, but every time a crack appeared in his wall of ice, he built a new one, thicker than before and harder to break.

As if my heart was not giving me enough trouble, another fear preyed hungrily on my mind: what if Leon found me? I had barely escaped death before, would I be so lucky again? Erik seemed sure of my safety, sure that Leon would not be able to track me, but I could not help but doubt. Every time I tried to distract myself from thinking about Erik, I began to think about Leon, and I would shudder mentally. I would never forget the madness in his handsome face as he jeered at me through prison bars, the strength of his hands as he held me against the wall and laughed at my terror...

"Is something the matter?" Erik had noticed the change in my demeanor, the involuntary result of my current train of thought.

"No, not at all." He continued to stare at me, and I knew he was not fooled by my forced smile.

"You're a terrible liar." He observed.

"Am I that obvious?"

"Your eyes always give you away." I thought I heard tenderness in his voice when he said that, but then, it might just be the effect of too much strong wine.

"I'm just...well, worried. It really doesn't matter, it's nothing important."

"Perhaps I can help..." His hand reached out tentatively as if to take mine across the table, but was pulled back a second later.

"I doubt it."

"Ah, I see."

"See what?"

"You're afraid that if you leave, Leon will find you again, and you won't have enough luck left in you to escape. And you didn't want to tell me because you thought it was an irrational fear and were embarrassed."

"Good guess. When did you become so intuitive?"

He ignored my question, and excused himself from the table, telling me to wait here, that he would return in a moment. I did as he asked, and sat staring at the flickering candles, trying to fathom what my life would be like when I reached Marseille. The odd thing was, I couldn't get my mind off what my life would be like if Erik came with me. That, of course, was absurd. He would never leave this cave of his; he was too deeply entrenched in his lonely life to be convinced to leave, even if I had the courage to ask him.

I didn't hear him approach from behind me, and jumped up with surprise when he casually dropped a black silk covered package in front of me.

"What's this?"

"Consider it a farewell gift. Go on, open it."

I unwrapped the soft fabric, revealing a gleaming silver dagger. I gingerly picked it up; it seemed to fit my hand as if it had been made for me, and as a turned it over in my hands, it reflected the candlelight beautifully.

"It's...lovely. A little unexpected, but..."

"You need some way to defend yourself, Remy, and I thought this one would be a good size for you."

"That was very thoughtful of you. Thank you."

"I assume you kept the gun?"

"I did."

"Good. Try not to let anyone close enough that you need to use this, but I would hate to see you run out of bullets and have no way to fight. Though if you continue to hold it like that, you're far more likely to harm yourself than your enemy."

"You'll forgive me; it's been a long time since I've used a dagger."

"But you have used one?"

"You do remember me telling you about my childhood, don't you? You learn a lot of strange skills in a gypsy camp."

"Well, get up, and I'll give you a lesson to refresh your memory."

Before I could object that it really wouldn't be necessary, he had already walked over to the flat space in front of the organ, where there was the most room to move, and divested himself of his jacket and waistcoat.

"Come here." He commanded. I realized with a start that I had simply been standing there staring at him; I was only human, and I had always had a weakness for handsome, well-built men.

He took a second blade out of his desk drawer, and tried to show me how to hold mine, but the bandages on his hands made it difficult for him to demonstrate, and for some reason, being so near him was making my mind work sluggishly. Finally, he put his own dagger down, and wrapped his hand around mine, arranging my fingers into the proper position with his own. I heard him saying something about not letting the dagger get knocked out of my hand, but all I could thing about was how gently his hand touched mine, and how warm his breath was on the back of my neck.

For the next two hours, he showed me how to slash, how to stab, how to block an attack.. After explaining each motion, he would grasp my hand, and guide it through the technique he had just taught me. Then he picked up his own dagger and had me attack him and defend against his attacks. By the time I could fight to his satisfaction, I was sweaty and short of breath, and my hair clung to the back of my neck in a most unpleasant way. I also thought that I was starting to smell, but Erik didn't seem to notice anything.

"Well done, Remy." As I tried to catch my breath and respond, he put his own dagger back into its sheath, and brought me a glass of water, which I gulped down gratefully as he watched in ill-concealed amusement.

"If I may ask..." I acknowledged his request with a nod. "How did you manage to escape from prison in the first place?"

Oh dear, this might be embarrassing. I think he noticed the pink flush that rose in my cheeks.

"If you don't want to say..."

"I've already told you all the other details of my vapid existence, at least this story you might actually enjoy. On the night before I was to be burned at the stake-"

"I thought you said I would enjoy this story-"

"Well, I didn't actually die! Anyway, the night before, I was sulking in my cell, and I noticed that when the replacement guard arrived to begin the midnight shift, he had whiskey on his breath. He was reeling, and muttering under his breath, so I decided to...take advantage of his inebriated condition. So, I...well..I suppose you could say I seduced him." Erik's eyebrow shot up in amused surprise. "I made him all the kinds of promises lonely men love to hear, and when he got close enough, I knocked him unconscious with my meal tray and took the keys."

"How ingenious of you."

"A little less than subtle, but surprisingly effective."

"I would imagine so. What kind of fool would refuse a woman like you?" Now it was my turn to be surprised. What exactly had he meant by that? It was certainly a suggestive compliment, but I wasn't sure what he was suggesting. Perhaps he wasn't a compliment at all; perhaps he thought I was...was what? A whore? I didn't bother to respond, unsure as I was of what to say. After I was silent for a moment, trying to read his eyes, he turned from me abruptly and suggested that it would be best if I went to bed, as I was sure to need the sleep. Sensing that whatever chance we might have had was gone, I agreed.


	28. Gone Away

**A/N: m-oquinn- Pride and Prejudice will always be my favorite, because Elizabeth Bennet was such a lovable heroine. I enjoyed Persuasion, and liked Anne, but found Wentworth annoying. I thought Northanger Abbey was hilarious, and liked that it was less serious than Austen's other books. I also loved Sense and Sensibility, because I can relate to being an older sister, but didn't like Emma very much. And Mansfield Park was ok, but not one of her best. I hate reading the unfinished ones, because I get so into them, and then have to stop because there is nothing left to read. **

**Well, that was entirely unrelated to anything, but I am an Austen fanatic. For that reason, I will never much like the Bronte sisters, because they looked down on Austen as a writer of cheap, meaningless novels. Very prissy and judgmental of them, I thought. They were just jealous cuz she could tell a more amusing story. Also, I think it is a little immature to walk around criticizing your contemporaries' work. Talk about lack of class. Austen was just trying to tell a good story, no need to get all superior because her stories supposedly aren't as meaningful.**

**Enough of me blathering, on to my story. Hope you enjoy this chapter, because I enjoyed writing it. Please review, and tell me what you think!**

"You gentlemen all know why you're here? No questions?" Leon stalked back and forth in front of the gathered ruffians, sizing them up for intelligence and brutality. Choosing the proper mix of lackeys was the most undeniably important part of the job. You couldn't get men who were too stupid, or they would bungle everything. Likewise, too much intelligence could lead to mutiny or a demand for more pay. They had to be vicious, but controllable; dumb, but not incompetent. "You! What did you say your name was?"

A man with a dark scruffy looking face came forward. "Roger, sir."

He looked strong and dull. He would do nicely. "Go stand on that side." Roger complied, and Leon scanned the crowd once more. He passed over a few who looked too weasel-like to be trusted, and his eyes landed an enormous shaggy blond. "You, the tall one! Name?"

"Johannes." His accent was thick, and he spoke slowly, with the unaccustomed tongue of a foreigner.

"Where are you from, my good man?"

"Belgium, sir."

"Go stand with Roger."

The next man he dismissed as having the look of an idiot, and the next was too small. Finally, he settled on a third, a wiry tall man with hard eyes and a swagger to his step, named Marc. Three was a good number, he thought, and Henri will make four. More than that might be hard to control, and for catching two people, four ought to be quite sufficient. Especially considering that his fiancee was nothing more than a bastard child with the pampered air of an aristocrat.

"The rest of you may go."

Once the rest of the foul-smelling group had trickled out, he turned to his new band of muscle. "As you know, I am hunting a man who has stolen some property of mine; my wife-to-be. They are both hiding under the old Opera House, and I have recently obtained information on their exact whereabouts. We are going to leave at first light, and find them, wherever they have hidden themselves away. Once we find them, I want you to tie them both up, gag them, and wait for me. I, obviously, will stay well behind the fight until they are secure. Noble blood, you see, not fit for bar fight style brawling."

"I thought you hired us to kill them?" Marc interjected, looking delightfully blood-thirsty.

"No, I hired you to help me kill them. You can watch, of course, but I must be the one to take their lives. It isn't any fun if I only get to watch, is it? Now, any questions? Good. I want you all back here by four tomorrow morning, when we begin our little witch hunt."

I awoke the next morning with an odd heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach, not knowing why I felt so sad. Then I remembered; I was leaving this morning. I was going to Marseille, where I would be safe and free. And I would never see Erik again.

With a heavy heart, I gathered my meager belongings, got dressed and tucked my gun and my knife into my belt, so that they were hidden by my blouse. For the last time, I pushed aside the curtain and walked down the steps to where Erik stood looking at his organ. He turned towards me when I approached, his face entirely blank, as though entirely incapable of expression.

"Good morning, Remy." I was at a loss to see what exactly was good about this particular morning, and for that matter, how he knew it was morning at all, but I returned his greeting.

"I went to the station last night. The next train to Marseille leaves in about three hours. The station is about three miles from here, so, there is time to eat breakfast, if you like."

"I rather think it would be better if I left at once. I can walk to the station, and still have plenty of time."

"If you take a cab, then you can wait a while and still have plenty of time." Was it possible he actually wanted me to stay? If not, why was he so anxious for me to have breakfast with him?

"No, really, I would much rather walk. I am already accepting enough money for a train ticket, I hardly want any more of your charity."

"Very well then. You think it best to leave now?"

"I do. No point in delaying, is there?'

"No. Here is the money. It ought to be enough for a ticket, and anything else you might require." He pressed a small purse into my hand,

"Thank you. Not just for the money, you know. For everything."

"You're welcome." He took my hand in his, and pressed his lips to it softy, like a perfect gentleman. I felt tears threaten to spill down my face, and pulled my hand before he could affect me anymore.

"Goodbye, Erik." With that, I turned and walked away, not even waiting for his reply. It wasn't until I was through the mirrored room and into the burnt-out hallways that I allowed myself to cry, letting hot tears fall down my face as I stumbled out of the opera house and into the Paris streets, while the leaden gray sky cried tears of its own.

He had never minded silence before; he used to find darkness comforting. Now it seemed to weigh on him, crushing his soul. He sank down on the organ bench to stare at his instrument, hoping that it could cure his ills the way it always had, knowing that it wouldn't. He stretched his bandaged hands over the keys, ignoring the pain of his unhealed wounds as he pressed them lightly down, trying to draw sound from the organ, trying to fill the silence, and drown his memories of Remy.

But the only song he could think of to play was the one he had begun to write on her first night here, when he had tried to drown out the sound of her nightmares. Over the next week he had written music while she slept, music that reflected the fire in her eyes, and the gentle warmth of her touch. But his broken fingers would not set the music free; the noise from the organ sounded like a dying animal, not the beautiful piece he had written for her. He couldn't even stand to keep trying, couldn't bear the grating noise in his ears; accustomed as he was to quality, the fumbling of his own hands would drive him to distraction.

He could not break the silence; his music, his greatest ally, had abandoned him in his time of need, and he was entirely alone. Such was his life; long periods of loneliness punctuated by intervals of companionship that served only to increase his pain. His mind began to drag him backwards, back to the time Christine had left him, back to the hours he had spent hoping that she would return, that she would realize the depth of love he felt or her and return it. But she never did. And he was not a man to make the same mistake twice; he would not hope for Remy's return, because he could not bear to see his hopes dashed once again.

But then, what was he to do to fill the long solitary hours that awaited him? All the amusements he had once found so engaging; his books, his music, his artwork, seemed to lose meaning and grow dull, and the thought of pursuing any of them was distasteful to him now. Where had all the color and light gone? It seemed his life had shifted from vivid light to dull, dark, gray in the time it had taken Remy to walk away.

Damn her! What right had she to make him so weak, to destroy what little happiness he had left? He tried to blame her, tried to make his pain her fault, but the anger would not come. The anger and hatred that he had lived off for years had deserted him as well, leaving nothing but a dull ache that gnawed at his heart. He had nothing left to sustain him; there was nothing left to do but die.

Deep in his reverie, he did not hear the footsteps coming down the stairs, or the sound of four men wading through his lake towards the grate he no longer bothered to keep closed. And he did not hear the soft click of a pistol being cocked and pointed in his direction.

**A/N: I am depressed because I need to go back to school tomorrow, so poist a review and cheer me up!**


	29. Games and Decisions

**A/N: Sorry about the lack of updates, just had a bad case of writer's block. Possibly induced by having to rush my rabbit to the emergency pet hospital at midnight. Vets still haven't figured out what's wrong with him, so they will be keeping him for a few days. I think my heart is broken. All the better to write angsty fanfic, I guess. Just don't expect much fluff until I get my little ball of fluff back.**

He didn't hear the men until it was too late; when he finally realized that his home had been invaded, they were close enough to shoot him, and one of them did so.

He had never been shot before, and at first he didn't even realize that the bullet had pierced his upper thigh. It was only when crashed to the ground and felt the blood trickling down his leg that the sharp, biting pain registered. For a moment, he knelt on one knee, his injured leg lying uselessly on the ground. His mind seemed to slow, and the next few minutes seemed to drag on interminably. He tried reaching to his side, but knew as he did so that there was no length of rope there. There was no knife strapped to his boot, either. He hadn't kept a weapon on him in over a year, and there wasn't one now when he needed it.

Before he could react, or formulate a plan, or get his bearings in any way, two of the men grabbed his arms, lifting him unwillingly to his feet, while another searched him for weapons. Above the dull rush of blood to his head that left him disoriented and slightly deaf, he could hear rough voices debating whether or not to take his mask off. They must have decided to leave it, because in the next moment, they had pinned him to a wall, and were proceeding to lash his hands together, and lift them above his head to tie them to a wall sconce above him.

This position left him weak and unable to move at all. He struggled to get his legs fully underneath him, but due to the gunshot wound a painful amount of his weight was supported by his arms. Breathing had become somewhat difficult, and he nearly blacked out, but a smooth, dark voice cut through his daze.

"Where is the little bitch?"

* * *

_Coward, _the dark recesses of my mind whispered. _Too afraid to stay; what a miserable excuse for a human being you are._ The sharp staccato beat of the rain drummed a rhythm in my head, a rhythm that my thoughts sung along with, repeating that word over and over. _Coward. Coward._

I tried to silence it, but I could no sooner end the relentless rain with a thought or gesture than make my mind leave me alone. I agreed wholeheartedly with what it was saying; I was a coward. I was afraid to stay, afraid to find out what would happen to me if I did, afraid that Erik might break through my walls instead of me breaking through his. I had been so intent upon getting him to trust me and open up to me that I didn't think about the consequences. I didn't think that I would fall in love with him.

ThereI told the mocking voice in my mind. I admitted it. Happy now?

Of course not. _Coward_, it whispered again. _You're still afraid._

This was getting ridiculous. I shouldn't have to argue with myself like this. I must be going insane.

_Of course you are. That's what you get for not listening to me._

_But I can't go back_. It was true, I couldn't. Could I? After all, he had asked me to leave.

_He didn't mean it; he was afraid, like you!_

No, that was impossible. If he had wanted me to stay he would have said so.

_He was afraid you would hurt him, the way everyone else has. He was afraid you would refuse._

He was right, after all. I didn't want to stay. His life was so dark and cold and lonely. No, I couldn't live like that. I wouldn't live like that.

_Why didn't you ask him to come with you?_

Because he wouldn't have said yes.

_Are you sure?_

Yes...maybe...no. I don't know. But what if he said no?

_Then you would go alone. But at least you would know for sure. If you don't, you'll spend the rest of your life regretting it, and wondering what could have been._

I was suddenly very aware that people were staring at me; I must have been a strange sight; constantly stopping then starting again, standing in the middle of the walk while rain fell on my bare head and trickled down my neck. I was the only one on the street not wearing a cloak of some kind; and I was freezing.

_Make your choice. _

I had nothing to lose but the little dignity I had left. I tightened my grip on my bag, whirled around and ran like a madwoman back to the opera house, while the Parisians unfortunate enough to be caught in the rain stared after me in amusement.

* * *

"Oh, don't pretend to be unconscious! I know you're awake, so just answer the question."

Erik was struck by the gentile quality of Leon's voice; it was almost as smooth as the blade pressed lightly against his throat. It was really no wonder Remy had trusted this man; he sounded cheerful, eager, friendly, and perfectly trustworthy. If it weren't for the fact he was tied up like a rabid dog, he would have thought he was seated in some beautiful parlor discussing Remy over a cup of tea. Of course, referring to Remy as "the little bitch" had not done anything to endear Leon to him. In fact, he was really beginning to want to kill the smarmy, arrogant bastard. He just had to figure out how.

Leon had posted the four men around the lair; two were standing knee deep in the lake facing the entrance they had come through, one was standing near the organ, and another on the top of the staircase near Remy's room. All four had their backs turned.

"You are beginning to make me very angry. You may believe, my masked friend, you don't wish to make me angry."

Erik remained silent, sizing up his opponents, and his chances for escape. He had to admit to himself, his situation did not look promising. If only he could get his hands free...

Suddenly, a sharp pain dug into his shoulder, as Leon moved the blade away from his throat and stabbed him. He barely restrained the cry of pain that threatened to betray his humanity.

"I don't think you're listening! I asked you where the girl is, and you are going to tell me!"

The change was amazing; in the space of a moment the quiet good breeding was gone, replaced by a look of utter insanity. Erik was familiar with that expression; he had worn it before, but never to such a degree as showed in Leon's crazed eyes.

A few moments of working at the rope proved what Erik had suspected to be true; the men who had tied him there had done their work well, and there was no real hope of escape. All he could do now was protect Remy.

"Well, what are you smiling at? Do you find me amusing, sir?"

"You're too late."

"Too late for what, may I ask?"

"I killed the little whore two days ago. If you still want her, you might look around the tunnels a while. I'm sure the body is still there."

Leon's eyes narrowed into slits, then, without warning, tore off Erik's mask, taking the dark wig with it, leaving his deformity entirely exposed. Like Remy, he barely even flinched. Just stared for a moment then, unlike Remy,began to laugh hysterically.

"Well, look at that. My Remy found herself another pathetic beast to look after her and lie for her."

Erik instinctively turned his face away in a final attempt to hide, but there was nowhere left to turn, no more shadows to hide in. Leon's voice grated on his ears, scraped at his mind like a badly played tune.

"Tell me, for I reallywould liketo know, what did she promise you in return for your loyalty?"

"I told you, I killed her. She was amusing for a while, but I got bored with her. Surely, you can sympathize."

"You lie very convincingly, you know. I almost believe you. But I know her ways; she worms her way into your heart, makes people like her. It's disgusting, really, how many people fall for her seductress ways."

"You're mad."

"No, you've got it all wrong!" Leon eyes blazed now, as though his eyes were lit from behind by a maniacal fire. "I am the only one who really knows her, who sees what she is!"

"A witch?" Erik kept his tone neutral, not wishing to reveal any emotion that might convince Leon that he was, indeed, lying.

"Exactly! I am merely trying to rid the world of this stain! And you, sir, are standing in the way!"

"Your job is already done, monsieur; the girl is dead."

"You see, I do not quite believe you. Your words agree with me, but your eyes tell me that you hate me. And if you hate me, it must be because you love her."

"Or because you brought these men into my home to shoot me and tie me like an animal."

"Well, let me be entirely frank, sir; you are an animal. Just like her. I think you have hidden her away, and are lying to protect her."

"That's absurd."

"Well, there is a way we can find out." Leon turned to the man standing near the organ and beckoned him closer. A brief exchange followed, one that Erik could not hear. Then the man began to attack the organ stool, kicking at it like it was his most hated enemy, until it lay broken on the floor in scattered pieces. He then proceeded to pile the pieces on top of each other, and finished by removing one of Erik's books from the shelf and placing it beneath the wood. With a flick of tinder, the book burst into flame, catching the ruined organ stool in its blaze. Erik remained silent, watching the destruction of his belongings passively. Every moment that Leon wasted with his crazed games gave Remy a better chance of freedom.


	30. Retourner

**A/N:My bunny is getting better, and should be able to come home on Saturday! Yay! Anyway, I decided to post a new chapter to celebrate. Hope you enjoy!**

It took a while for Leon to heat the metal poker he held in his hand; Erik wasn't sure exactly how long, but he heard the madman's voice droning in his ears for what seemed like an eternity. He tried to follow what he was saying, gain some clue as to how Leon could be manipulated, but the blood that oozed from his gunshot wound and the pain of breathing while stretched out the way he was had sapped his strength. He could only hear a dull buzz that he took to be Leon's voice. The words blurred together into an endless noise that barely penetrated his rapidly slowing mind.

At this point, he was fairly sure he would be dead before long. He wanted to just drift out of consciousness, and fall asleep forever, but it seemed Leon was looking for ways to prolong his suffering, and make his death more painful. The thought was something of a comfort; while Leon was here, he was not looking for Remy, who would soon be safely on the train to Marseille. Without Remy, he may as well be dead anyway, so there was some poetic justice in the fact that Leon's sudden obsession with torturing the truth out of him was actually defeating his goal of finding and killing Remy. And if there was one thing Erik had always enjoyed, it was poetic justice. That and killing people like Leon, but considering his present circumstances, that was becoming a more and more remote possibility.

* * *

I believe I ran even faster than I had that first night I entered the opera house. Then, I had been driven by fear; now it was love that pushed me onwards. It was a strange sensation, this realization that I loved him; like clouds over my mind had been lifted, letting sunshine through. It would have been nice if the weather had cleared in response to my change in mood; if the sun had driven the rain away to reflect my newfound joy. But my life was hardly a fairy tale, and the sky remained stubbornly soggy, refusing to give in to the romance of the moment. This was rather unfortunate, as I managed to slip on the damp cobblestones more than once; I managed to keep my footing, but only barely, and was forced to check my speed for fear that I would fall on the pavement and bash my head open before I even had time to play out the romantic scenario running through my mind.

I told myself not to give my imagination such a loose rein, but I was thoroughly lost in the expectation of a perfect reunion. I told myself that life never went the way of romance novels; that such unlikely turns rarely had happy endings. That I couldn't just go fling myself into his arms and tell him what I had discovered. That he was more likely to refuse to come with me than to accept. That he might not even be happy to see me.

But such doubts never last long in the mind of a woman in love; such a wayward emotion will not allow itself to be trampled and crushed; not by reason, not by intellect, not by anything so mundane as worry and fear.

If I had not been soaked to the skin before, I certainly was now. My clothes were wet and cold against my skin, and felt heavier now that they were saturated with rain. I was indeed severely uncomfortable, but the fire in my heart was doing its best to keep me warm, and succeeding more than I would ever have given it credit for. All I could think about was sitting with Erik by a warm fire somewhere, both of us wrapped in blankets. Better yet, both of us wrapped in the same blanket...

I remembered that night, that seemed so long ago, when I had sat by his feet and rested my head against him as he played, and imagined doing so again, this time with nothing on my mind but the feel of having him close to me. I was so busy wondering what a love like that would be like that I completely missed the street that I was supposed to turn on to get to the opera house.

Feeling like a complete idiot, I turned back, furious at myself for wasting precious time that could be spent explaining to Erik exactly why he had to come with me to Marseille, and doing whatever had to be done to convince him.

It wouldn't be easy; he was so afraid of human contact, and with good reason. He had been scorned by his mother, displayed in a cage to be laughed at and jeered by anyone willing to pay, and rejected by the lucky girl he had fallen in love with. It was my task now to prove that there were good people in this world, people who would respect him for his talent, and look beyond his deformity. I had seen enough cruelty in this world to understand his fear, but I had also seen enough selfless kindness to want to show him that he was wrong. I could not let him continue his lonely life when I was so sure that I could find a way to bring him into the light.

If Marseille turned out to be as cruel as Paris, we would go somewhere else, anywhere else. Italy, Spain, England...even America, if that was what it took to find some peace for him. I had nothing to lose by staying at his side, and everything to gain. I would wake him from the solitude he was so sound asleep in. I would be his awakening, his _reveiller_. And I would make him love me.

* * *

The first thing Leon did with the poker was seal Erik's leg wound.

"Couldn't have you bleeding to death before I'm done." He remarked cheerily, while Erik gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the smell of charred flesh that rose to his nostrils, and the white-hot pain spreading up his thigh. It was only physical; it meant nothing. He would ignore it. Just ignore it. Think of something else; think of Remy. Think of her smile. Think of her eyes. Think of everything but the pain.

Suddenly, the burning pain had moved to his shoulder wound, and he cried out involuntarily.

"I don't like being ignored! I asked you a question, and all I want is an honest answer! Can you answer me, monster? I want an answer!"

He jabbed the poker into Erik's side, but he was ready for it this time and didn't make a noise.

"That was impulsive of me. Not at all effective, I daresay. I have a problem with my temper, you see."

Erik was tempted to comment that his temper wasn't the only thing he had a problem with, but he couldn't form the words.

"You are a very strange man. Most men would have talked by now. I really don't know why you bother to protect her. She isn't worth it. Do you think she will mourn over you once you are dead? She won't, you know. Ungrateful little hussy. Anyway, that isn't really the point, is it? The point is, I need a way to get that information out of you. Perhaps I ought to try a new toy? Or just go back to an old favorite of mine."

With a sickening smile, he pulled a letter opener out of his coat. "You see this lovely little tool?" He waved it in front of Erik's face. "Remy actually had the gall to use it on me. Gave me this horrid little scar with it." He pointed to the raised red mark on his face. "Not very useful the way it was, so I sharpened it a bit. Now it has a nice point, a sharp edge. Normally, I would have just bought myself a knife, but I like the symbolism of using this one, you know what I mean? Poetic, ironic, and all that. I gave her a similar scar, you may have noticed"

_You'll never get the chance to give her another, you filthy bastard_, Erik thought, steeling himself for the pain he knew was coming.

**A/N: Remember, if you want to know what happens, post a review.**


	31. Blood and Tears

**A/N: I'm sorry the update took so long, I have been really busy. But here you have another chapter, so review and make me want to write anothr!**

In my state, I scarcely noticed the dust and ash that covered the staircase and statues. Through the haze of romance that filled and clouded my vision, the whole ruined building seemed to glow and sparkle. The fact that I was coughing up lungs full of ash didn't do much to quell my enthusiasm; nor did the sharp cramp in my side or the fact that my injured ankle was beginning to hurt again.

Reaching the backstage didn't take long; finding the right hallway and the right wall sconce. I must have tried every single sconce to find the one the would move the wall, and open the door. When I finally found it, and dropped into the mirrored room, my heart was pounding in anticipation and more than a little exhaustion.

But once I reached the mirrored room, I had the sudden intuition that something was not right. When I flipped the switch to stop the mirrors from moving, I heard a voice outside the door. I moved slowly closer, trying to decide if the voice was Erik's. It definitely wasn't. It was familiar, though.

* * *

Leon's new method was to create a new wound with the letter opener, twist it around to deepen it, then ask him again. When he didn't answer, Leon would then seal the wound with the poker, to prevent any further blood loss. 

Erik resolved not to let Leon know exactly how much the pain was affecting him, but after the first two wounds, he couldn't hold back a cry of agony. He felt like his whole body was on fire, and with every new incision another flame licked at his skin. Leon kept talking at him, never ceasing his harangue, never letting Erik have a moment of peace, a moment of quiet.

* * *

Leon. His voice made my knees shake, and sent cold sweat down my already soaked spine. Dear God, where had my courage gone? The song that had played in my heart since admitting that I was in love with Erik was cut off abruptly. I sank to the ground in a heap, my legs giving out beneath me. I wrapped my arms around my legs and shook, my blood turning to ice in my veins and chilling me to my bones. 

I should have been able to stand up, to reach for my pistol and confront the man, but he had become so much more than a man; he was an embodiment of all my nightmares, the source of all my pain, the bête-noir that haunted my mind. His voice brought horrible memories flooding into my mind, memories of brutal beatings, harsh, jeering, words, things that I hadn't even had the courage to tell Erik about. I had given him the censored version of my story, the clean one that lacked gory, brutal details.

My mind groped in the darkness for some kind of courage, for some ability face my fears, but the bravery would not come. His presence just a few feet away sapped me of strength and robbed me of my soul, leaving a weakened shadow of a woman.

But then I heard Erik's cry cutting through the darkness, and setting my heart aflame with anger. Leon was hurting Erik, the way he had hurt me, and that I would not allow. With newfound strength, I rose to my feet and straightened my back. I felt for the gun, and found it tucked safely in my waistband alongside the knife. Three bullets should be plenty to kill one psychotic killer, and if not, I had a knife and the newly acquired skill to use it.

My heart hammered in my chest as I opened the door with shaking fingers, trying not to make noise; this would be a lot easier if I kept the element of surprise. I thanked God that the hallway was dark enough that I remained concealed, but could plainly almost the entire cave. When I peaked my head out, I almost lost my courage again: there were two men standing knee deep in the glistening water. Another was posted by the organ, and another by the staircase to my room. All had their backs turned so that their eyes were averted from the gory scene in the middle of the room.

* * *

Leon had apparently decided that the knife and poker routine was wearing thin, and had moved on to some new amusement; breaking Erik's fingers. The first break had ripped a cry from his unwilling chest, and he knew that Leon was getting ready to break another. He closed his eyes and envisioned Remy's face, the way she had felt in his arms when they danced on the rooftop, and soft hands on his when he had broken down and cried into her skirts.

* * *

My heart nearly broke when I saw Erik and Leon. My hands trembled with rage, and I was completely ready to charge into the room regardless of the long odds. Erik's hands were bound together and pulled above his head so that his arms were stretched out and his breathe was coming in harsh gasps. His hair hung limply over his face, and I realized that I had not even seen the extent of his deformity; the dark glossy hair must have been a wig, because his hair now was lighter brown and didn't cover his entire scalp. There were a good two inches of purple-tinged tissue that extended past his ear that I had not seen before. There were singed holes burned into his clothes, surrounded by dark splotches of blood. His eyes were closed, and his face was a picture of agony. 

Three bullets, and one diminutive girl against five men. I had to make the bullets count before I did anything with the knife. From what I could see, only Leon had a gun, the pearl-handled revolver that he was always so proud of. The rest appeared unarmed except for knives in their boots.

I could do this; I had to do this. I wouldn't let Erik die, and I wouldn't give Leon the satisfaction of hurting me through Erik. I just had to figure out how to save him.

* * *

Erik didn't think that he would last much longer; the pain now permeated every inch of him, and he could feel the life slipping away. Strange, he hadn't lost much blood. It shouldn't be enough to kill him; perhaps he had just lost the will to live.

* * *

I moved slowly from my place in the shadows, gun in one hand, knife held the way Erik had taught me in the other. I steadied my trembling hands and fired. In a cloud of smoke, I saw Leon drop to the ground. I whirled and fired at the man standing by the organ, and saw him clutch a hand to his chest. My last bullet was sent in the direction of the man by the staircase, who likewise dropped to the ground. Two more men, no more bullets left. Leon had a gun... I ran to where he lay on the floor, and pulled it from his holster. Once I had it, I turned on the two men by the entrance, who were now advancing towards me with knives drawn. When they saw th gun in my hand, they turned and ran. I was too concerned over the fact that Erik looked to be on death's door to worry about letting them live. I dropped the gun in my mad rush to reach him, and frantically hacked at the rope that bound his hands together, while saying his name over and over, praying he could hear me.

* * *

He was dreaming: that was the only logical explanation. Through the darkness that was encroaching on his mind, he heard gunfire and saw smoke, and in the confusion, thought he saw Remy. But Remy was gone. Remy was safe on a train to Marseille. But then, where was the gunfire coming from? He closed his eyes, trying to make sense of what was happening. The noise and smoke cleared, and he heard her voice repeating his name. He felt her delicate hands on his face, and then her breath on his neck as she reached up above him and cut him free. His legs would not hold his weight., and neither could Remy, so he dropped to the ground ungracefully, and lay in a heap at her feet. Soft fingers caressed his sore neck, and brushed his thin hair away from his face. They moved onto his shoulders, down his arms, then worked at the rope that was wound around his wrists. He felt her tears drop onto his disfigured skin as her hands moved soothingly over the harsh red lines the ropes left behind. With a shuddering breath, he opened his eyes, expecting to find staring into the emptiness of death. Instead, he saw only Remy's thin, scarred face and pale blue eyes looking back at him filled with concern and damp tears. And then he saw Satan himself rise up behind her silently, clutching a bleeding shoulder, eyes full of hate and murderous wrath. 


	32. La Mort du Diable

**A/N: I know, I am truly evil. But I haven't given you guys a good cliffhanger in a while, and I was getting bored. I know, it's terrible to see Erik in pain, but I promise, it will all be over soon-one way or another...insert evil laughter**

Through the mist of tears that clouded my vision, I saw Erik's expression change; his relief changed to a grimace, and his lips moved, as if he were trying to tell me something but couldn't form the words. I placed my finger to his lips to keep him from attempting to speak, fearful that he might distress himself and worsen his injuries. I whispered softly to him that I was here, and that he shouldn't be afraid.

And then I felt a cold hand reach around my neck and pull me to my feet with an iron grip. Leon. I hadn't killed Leon. His dark, maniacal laughter filled my hears, and his fingers sent a chill down my spine to the bottom of my shoes.

"You really are an incredibly stupid woman, my dear. You ought to know that one should always check the body. You never just assume that your enemy is dead. "

I glanced at Erik, praying that God would somehow give him the strength to stand and fight, but his eyes had slipped close.

"You always come so close to doing the smart thing, but you turn out inadequate in the end."

Don't listen to him, I willed myself. Don't let his voice distract you. Keep thinking, there must be a way out of this. His voice can't hurt you. Unfortunately, his hand could, and I could feel the air slowly leaving my lungs as his fingers clenched tighter.

"Poor, foolish, girl. That was what your grandfather called you when he went to see you. After he called you a disgusting bastard and a little whore of Satan."

My gun. It had to be here; I reached to my belt for it, only to glimpse it lying on the floor next to Leon's. My knife! Where had I put that blade? Used it to cut the ropes, then..then dropped it next to Erik. Leon was right. I was so stupid, I was ashamed of myself. Little good shame would do me now.

"Now, it appears your monstrous lover is dead, two of my men are dead, and the other two are gone. That leaves just you and me, darling."

My hands reached to scratch at his face, in a desperate attempt to force him to loosen his grip, but he just reached out and knocked then away with force that made my whole body quiver. Without warning, he shoved me against the wall, let go of my throat, and pinned both my hands above me. I tried to kick him, but he moved aside with astonishing ease.

"What's wrong, my love, afraid? Don't be. This is how it would have been if we were married, you know...you and me, alone. Makes me wonder what it would have been like to have you...but there is no way to bring back the past, is there?"

He held both of my hands in one of his, and used his free hand to brush the hair away from my face; I felt like maggots were crawling on my skin where he touched me. Then he held up letter opener; the same one that had lain on the desk in his study that morning so long ago, the same one I had used in my desperate escape attempt. He held to tip to my throat, then traced it down to my stomach, where he pressed it harder against my bodice.

"Now, I fear, it is time for us to say goodbye. Anything you wish to say before I send you to your master in Hell?"

"Only that I will save a place for you there."

With a deep breath, I closed my eyes, and steeled myself for death. But the final blow never came.

* * *

Leon was going to kill her. Erik felt his eyes drifting closed, for all his attempts to stay conscious. He couldn't die, not now, not when Remy needed him. He had to get up, he had to fight, but he felt as though all the blood had drained from his body, leaving him weak and helpless. So long he had wished for death, and now that it had finally come to claim him, he did not wish to go. He had never possessed so strong a will to life as he did now, when it seemed the most unlikely. 

He heard Leon's taunting voice once more, and the sound of a body thrown against the wall, followed by a small whimper of pain. Remy. He had to help Remy.

Dear God, he prayed, if you do exist, now is the time to prove it. I cannot save her alone. I cannot even stand up. I have spent my entire life denying you, and hating you, and resenting what you did to me, but I need you now.

The ropes. The ropes that had bound his hands lay on the ground next to him. He heard Remy's body slam against the wall with sickening force. Leon droned on.

His stretched out his fingers until he could feel the roughness of the rope, wet with his own blood. He opened his eyes the slightest bit, and saw the bandages on his hands. Remy had done that. She had forgiven him, and she had tried to heal him. He closed his fingers around the rope and pulled it closer to him slowly. He could feel his legs and chest going numb, thankfully blocking the pain.

He held a side of the rope in each hand, and began to quietly push himself up. Leon had his back turned, and couldn't see him, and was too busy talking to hear him. Strength he didn't know he still had flooded into his weary limbs, and he said a silent prayer, pleading for success. Suppressing a groan, he rose unsteadily to his feet, and turned to where Leon stood babbling. He could see Remy, but she didn't seem to notice him, so transfixed as she was, staring into her erstwhile fiance's eyes with fear and disgust.

He heard Remy's voice ringing through the darkness, and her words fed the righteous fire that spread across his broken body and gave him strength. For the first time since he killed his gypsy captor, Zurka, he did not feel the tingling guilt that always made him hesitate for a split second before making a kill.

* * *

I only saw Erik only a moment before he wrapped the rope around Leon's neck. My heart leaped to my throat as Leon, caught off guard, stumbled backwards. I heard Erik utter a noise like an animal growling as he tightened the rope around the filthy bastard's neck. I was alive. I had been so convinced of the inevitability of my death that I had given up fighting for those minutes while Leon had held me captive, but now the fire had returned. I dropped to my knees to find the knife, while I drank in deep gulps of air, trying to ignore the painful constriction of my throat. 

I heard Erik grunt in pain, and looked up to see Leon struggling against the rope wholeheartedly, like a rabbit in a trap. He threw his elbow into Erik's shoulders, trying to make contact and only succeeding occasionally.

But Erik's strength was waning quickly, and it occurred to me that I was going to need to intervene on his behalf. Many of the candles that had been lit this morning when I left had burned out, leaving deep pools of darkness on the floor that impaired my ability to find the knife.

Behind me, the struggle continued, growing more desperate with each passing second, and I cursed my inability to see. Finally, I felt smooth metal beneath my outspread fingers, and grasped the blade in triumph; it was not a moment too soon either. I stood and turned to see Leon push Erik backwards into the hard stone wall, so that he was trapped between it and Leon's back. He still had the rope around Leon's neck, but his broken fingers were having trouble keeping hold of the edges, and they began to slip.

Leon smirked at me as I approached, as if to ask me what I thought I was doing. His eyes were daring me to kill him, and I have never been one to refuse a dare. Without any further thought, any further hesitation, any more questions or qualms, I plunged the dagger deep into his chest, where I imagined his heart was, if indeed he possessed one.

I expected him to make some sound, some cry of pain, but he was entirely quiet. His voice, that had driven me to complete terror, was silenced. His only reaction was a look of puzzlement that finally wiped that horrible smile off his handsome face. His lips moved as if to say my name, but no sound issued forth. His hands dropped from the rope around his neck, and reached out towards me, as if even the throes of death would not keep him from trying to hurt me.

I pushed the blade in deeper, twisting it to speed his death, then removed it and stepped out of the way as he fell forward and landed stretched out on the ground, thick blood forming a puddle around his remains.

I looked into Erik's eyes, and saw the relief written there. He was breathing heavily, and leaning against the wall for support. I stepped over Leon's corpse, and bent to feel for a pulse; nothing. Good. Now I could turn my full attention to Erik, who now sank down to the floor, his back still to the wall, and closed his eyes as if death had come to take him at last.

**A/N: Now, I know some of you wanted Erik to kill Leon, and some of you wanted Remy to do the honors, so I figured a joint effort would be satisfying to both. And I promise, Leon is dead this time. That doesn't mean their problems are over, though. Also, I will be out of town this weekend, so don't expect an update til about Wednesday. I posted this one because I just couldn't bear to leave my faithful readers hanging while I jetted off on college visits. **


	33. Commencer

**A/N: Sorry about the long update. Please forgive me. Pretty please!**

Now what?

Leon was dead, but now I had three bodies that would need to be removed and hidden so that they didn't stink up the cave as they decomposed. Erik was looking worse by the moment, and I knew I had to disinfect and bandage his wounds soon, but all I wanted to do was collapse into his arms and cry.

I was on the verge of cursing God for the life I had been given, when Erik's groan of pain pulled me back to reality. I may be tired and scared, but at least I wasn't lying bloody and broken on the ground.

I knelt on the ground and placed one hand against his face, and took one of his hands in my other. His face was cold and dripping with sweat, and his hand was limp and clammy. I had to get him off the floor and into bed so that I could tend to his injuries, but there was no way that I could lift him.

"Erik, listen to me." His eyelids fluttered open and he looked at me groggily. "You need to stand up now. Do you understand me? You can't stay like this." He nodded slowly, and I held onto his arm. "Come on, I'll help you, just lean on me."

He struggled to his feet, his breathe coming in uneven gasps as he stood upright, his weight mostly against the wall. We stayed like that for a few moments while he recovered enough consciousness to begin walking.

For the next fifteen minutes, we progressed slowly to the room above the stairs, the one I had stayed in. He would walk a few short steps, then stop and steady himself before continuing. I hated seeing the pained look on his face, the one that hinted quietly that he might have preferred to just stay where he was and let life slip away from him, but I kept whispering encouraging words into his ear, until we finally made our way up the damn stairs and he dropped with a groan onto the red velvet blankets.

"Erik?"

He had tried to keep awake for her, so that she wouldn't be alone, but the effort was to much for him. He heard her say his name, sounding a little panic stricken, and wanted to comfort her, to tell her that he would be fine, but he didn't even have the strength to speak. Not to mention he wasn't even sure of his own survival. He liked to think of himself as a strong man, but there is only so much blood one can loose before just giving up.

As soon as I established that Erik was no longer conscious, I ran down to the main room and searched frantically for bandages, trying to ignore the corpses that littered the cave. Searching the room with the bathtub, I found a small cabinet with clean rags, alcohol, and some strangely colored bottles. I swept everything into a small basket and returned to Erik.

His breathing had slowed to what I hoped was a normal rather than unhealthy rate, and I was left with the task of cleaning and bandaging his injuries. That would mean removing most of his clothing. The well-bred lady in me squirmed at the idea, the pragmatic in me told me that it must be done, no matter how uncomfortable it made me, and some small voice told me that I shouldn't be such a ninny about when my ultimate goal was marriage and all that presumably came with it. I felt a blush rise to my cheeks. Thank God Erik wasn't awake.

I ended up needing to cut his shirt completely off him with a knife, but used more discretion when I found his leg wound, just cutting around the area of his injury to avoid exposing more than I wished to see.

I nearly cried when I saw all his wounds; two broken fingers, a gunshot through the outer edge of his thigh, one cut in his shoulder, and another three in various places on his torso. All the cuts were also burned shut, so they wouldn't require bandaging, but I knew I should clean them anyway. I also needed to push his fingers back into place, but I thought the gunshot wound should take precedence.

I found a small surgical blade in the basket of supplies, and rubbed it with alcohol to sterilize it. Taking a deep breath, I washed off the surrounding blood to find the entry point, and made a deep incision around it. It was bloody work, digging the bullet out, and I had to stop every few minutes to push back my rising nausea.

Finally, I extracted the small round bullet and dropped it on the floor. I cleaned the wound with more alcohol, and bandaged it tightly. I tended the other cuts and burns next, washing each one, and bandaging those that weren't closed with burns.

His fingers were last, and I took great care resetting them; there was nothing I would hate more than to forever ruin his ability to play the organ. Well, that and losing him altogether.

I was exhausted by the time I finished, and my shirt was covered in blood. I didn't know whether I wanted to cry, bathe, sleep, or all three. I settled for changing my clothing, and removing the bloodied blankets from the bed, as I imagined they would be uncomfortable, especially once the blood dried. I covered Erik's sleeping form with his cloak, so that he wouldn't catch cold, and went to the bath room to get clean.

I tried not to look at Leon's body as I walked past it, but I caught a glimpse of his horrible face, still fixed in an expression of shock and disgust. I could not believe that he was dead; my nightmare was over. I was free of the man who had hunted me for the amusement it brought him, the man who had turned my life from dull and monotonous to complete agony in the space of a single conversation.

Then why was I not happy? Well, probably because I honestly had no idea what to do now. All my thoughts had been so focused on escaping Leon, and telling Erik that I loved him that I had no idea what to do now that Leon was dead and Erik was in no state to hear or understand my declarations of undying love.

Furthermore, with reality so harshly intruding upon my pleasant daydreams, I now was plagued by the thought that Erik might not be receptive to my affection having just been tortured by my ex-fiance. What if he was just sick of my whole drama and wanted nothing more than to be done with me?

I could drive myself insane thinking like that, and I would not give into self-doubt and worry. I had to keep up hope, or I wouldn't be able to deal with the rest of the obstacles that lay in my way, namely, the three corpses. Some part of me wanted to just roll them into the lake so that I wouldn't have to look at them, but it appeared to be Erik's main source of water, and dumping bodies into it would be utterly disgusting. I would have to wait for him to wake up so that I could ask his advice, as I lacked experience in disposing of dead bodies.

Trying to drown my thoughts with activity, I returned to Erik to see if he might need any more tending to. I had no such luck; he was sleeping calmly with regular, even breathing and no sign of blood seeping through bandages or any other urgent calamities.

Overwhelmed by a need to be close to him, I sat on the edge of his bed and brushed the scraggly hair out of his face. Even asleep, he did not possess that strange innocence that colors even the most hardened of faces. He looked tense, as if awaiting the next blow life would deal him, and his hand protectively, though not effectively, covered the marred side of his face. I touched the smooth skin, then moved his hand away and brushed my fingers down the thin, reddish skin that covered the right side of his face. He shuddered in his sleep, and my protective nature and possibly irrational need for closeness took over.

Trying not to wake him, I lay down softly next to him, so that my body was pressed gently to his. I tucked one arm under me, and placed the other protectively over his arm. Then I lay my head on his chest, and where the quiet rise and fall of his breathe lulled me to sleep at last.


	34. Arise

A/N: Again, I must beg your forgiveness for the lateness. AP exams next week, prom the week after that, college decisionsby May 1st,things are getting a little hectic. Anyone who has been through the same hell can sympathize, I'm sure. Anyway, less about my life, more about my wonderful reviewers!

et-spiritus-sancti: I am so glad you are enjoying it, and I must say, the last little scene is a favorite of mine. I'm glad that there is room for a little fluff now. I like it as much as the nextPhantom-obsessed girl. Btw, any particularinspiration for thename, cuz me likey.

Jaini Kenobi: Your wish is my command

m-oquinn; please don't kill me, i am kinda enjoying life right now. I will will make it up to you; there will be love and happiness and puppy dogs and all that soon enough.

MissCleo:I am so glad you noticed, because I try hard not to make Remy a complete Mary Sue, with knowledge of all things and eyes that are sometimes green but look blue except for when they are purple, and all that rot.

Ridel: YAY,I love prizes!

Forensic Photographer711:I won't bore you with moreMary Sue stereotypes. I do want to keep my characters human, so thank you for commenting, it helps me make sure I am on the right track.

Past Dreams and PhantomDragon:I'm glad you found your way to my humble story,so keep reviewing.I am a review addict!

* * *

Erik was having the strangest dream. He dreamed that there was a girl, lost, scared, and hunted, running around the opera house, and that he was following her. He dreamed of rescuing her, and of bringing her to his home. He got strange, memory-like flashes of seeing her smile, and hearing her argue with him over the most interesting topics. He even dreamed, this one especially vivid and realistic, that she danced with him, under the stars while the fresh spring breeze lifted golden hair off her shoulders and the moonlight reflected in her eyes. He also got vague images of blood, fire, and a man with a distinctly annoying voice, but pushed those from his mind, trying to hold onto the dreams of the girl.

It was ridiculous, of course, the things a tired mind could think up. The very idea of such preposterous things actually happening was not only remote, but entirely impossible. What kind of girl would be wandering around the Opera Populaire? What kind of girl would allow herself to be cared for by him? Or treat him like another human being? Or bandage his hands, or dance with him, or forgive him for his crimes?

Remy. The name sounded oddly familiar. Now he was naming his dream characters. How long had he been asleep? He felt a the haze of slumber begin to lift, driven away by the sharp reality of waking, and he fought it with what little consciousness he had. Try as he might, he could not keep himself in that dream state forever. Despite his attempts, simply keeping his eyes closed was not enough, and he resigned himself to losing that beautiful fantasy his mind had created for him, filled with the image of a girl named Remy.

Light poured in through his eyes as his dream faded into nothingness. Except, the dream was still there; the girl was still there. He felt a slight weight leaning on his chest, and the soft edges of blond hair brushing against his rib cage. He inclined his head towards her, and saw Remy lying against him, looking for all the world like an angel that had fallen out of heaven and somehow landed next to him.

There were dark circles ringing her eyes, and her clothes looked dirty and ragged, and her hair was tangled and clumped behind her ears; but she was there, and she was beside him, and the warmth of her body spread to his. Surely he must still be dreaming; she was too perfect to be real.

A dull pain that ran through his fingers as he reached to touch her face convinced him that this was indeed truly happening, and with that realization, a flood of memories returned to him. She had returned to him. Remy had left, but she had come back. Part of him wanted desperately to wake her and ask her why, but she looked so peaceful and perfect that he couldn't bear to. What if she had forgotten something, and come back to retrieve it, and only stayed because he was hurt? What if she had wanted to stay with him, but had changed her mind when she saw that he could not even kill Leon for her?

At least when she was asleep, he could imagine that this was how his life actually was; he could pretend that she was his, and that she cared for him as deeply as he cared for her. That was a strange revelation. All the time that Remy was with him before, he could picture Christine, and believe that the ache in his heart was still due to her abandonment. But if he was still in love with Christine, why would Remy's absence cause the hole in his heart to widen? Why would he miss Remy so terribly if it was Christine he wanted?

It was a frightening revelation as well. It proved him utterly wrong about his own heart; he had thought he would die of love for Christine, that once she was gone he would never know joy again. He thought that there was only one perfect person for every other person, that Fate had led him to Christine, that Fate had bound his hands and left him with no choice but to love her and her alone. He had hoped that the same Fate would also lead her to love him, but she hadn't. He had tried to convince himself that Remy was a mere annoyance, that he would be fine when she left, that her presence could do nothing to ease his pain and brighten his darkness. But here he was, warm with happiness because Remy was next to him.

Not that he was entirely comfortable; the pain in his hand was eclipsed only by the numerous cuts and burns on his chest, which were nothing compared to the sharp ache of his thigh were the bullet had sliced through his skin and muscle. He had a pain relieving draught in his cabinet, an old Middle Eastern one he learned of in his reading, but he feared if he should attempt to stand up and walk he would only fall over. Remy could get it, but he did not want to wake her, and spoil the magic of this moment, so he just gritted his teeth and did his best to ignore the pain.

* * *

I awoke completely rested when Erik shifted beneath me, and opened my eyes to find him staring questioningly at my face. My first reaction was of course to blush an unbecoming shade of red and avert my gaze, but he said nothing, forcing me to be the first to speak. 

I pressed my face into the cloak that covered us both, and mumbled that I hoped he was feeling better, and was there anything I could do for him. Judging from the confused look on his face, he hadn't understood my muffled comment, so I repeated it, my mouth uncovered, wondering if my breath smelled dreadful, or if his expression where the result of some other pain. Much as I hated to see him hurting, I selfishly hoped it was the later, for my pride's sake.

He forced a grim smile, and told me that he was better, but that I might try to find a small purplish bottle, as it contained a very potent pain reliever. Hearing his voice, though it sounded strained and painful, reassured me, and I rose quietly, trying not to jostle him too much in the process. I was aware of his eyes following me as I moved about the room trying to find the basket I had so hastily pushed all the bottles from the cabinet into. I finally located it pushed under the bed, and dug out the purple bottle. He told me where I could find a spoon and a glass of water, and I felt quite accomplished and pleased with myself as he swallowed the nasty, familiar-smelling concoction. He must have given me the same one when I arrived here, and for a moment I reflected on how our situation had been reversed.

I instinctively reached to touch my forehead, where the bruise had faded into naught but a bad memory, and slid my hand down to my cheek, where I could feel the raised bump of my scar. I hoped that it, too, would fade in time, but like sad memories, some things are meant to last forever.

Erik must have noticed the look on my face, for he was quick to ask me if I had been hurt during the struggle. I told him that I was fine, but he still appeared concerned.

"I would worry about myself, if I were you, Erik. Or worry about the nice, fresh corpses on the floor. I think I am the only one unscathed, so you certainly needn't worry about me" I heard my voice take on a prim, parlor tone, the one I used to convince boring people that they really were very amusing, and that I really did want to hear about their second cousin's friend's son's foray into the law business. I hated that insincerity, but didn't have enough energy or will to fight it.

His eyes were still fixed on my face, and I dearly wished that I had the courage to ask him what he was thinking.


	35. An Unpleasant Task

**A/N: ****Hooray that Phantom is finallyout on DVD! I now have my own copy! Also, if anyone has a favorite other Phantom movie or book that they suggest, please tell me. I need something to fight the boredom of my final month in school!**

**Miss Cleo: I am taking French and Calculus, Monday and Tuesday. It could get ugly. Needless to say, I have spent all this miserable weekend conjugating french verbs and memorizing formulas for integration and differentiation.**

**Jaini Kenobi, Call Me Camille, Forensic Photographer711: I am glad the slight fluffiness was appreciated, because I must admit that I prefer writing the cute romantic stuff to the mundane details of everyday life; alas, it would be entirely weird to have a story with nothing but fluff. **

**Et-spiritus-sancti: Hey, give credit where credit is due. Cool name. Anyway, glad you like the story, and I will try to keep writing. Just promise not to kill me if the chapters are a little shorter, or spaced farther apart.**

* * *

He wished her eyes would tell him more, but they were too clouded with worry for him to analyze what she was really thinking. As she ran around getting everything he needed, he realized that his face was completely uncovered, and that she had not even batted an eyelash at it. Her tolerance was truly exceptional. 

He saw her run her hand down her face, regret and pain written across her features, and prayed that she wasn't hurt. If Leon wasn't already dead, Erik would have killed him in a far more painful way, just because of Remy's expression as her hands fingered the faded line on her cheekbone. He had the sneaking suspicion that Leon, or one of the men in his employ, had treated her more brutally than she had admitted. It would be just like her to gloss over anything that she considered too messy to tell him. Strange that he now felt comfortable enough in his knowledge of her to make such a generalization.

He felt a little guilty by thinking that, and was shocked by his own passing sense of annoyance with her. It wasn't as though he hadn't done the same thing; he had only given her the outline of his life story, and left her to fill in the rest. He wanted to say something, but didn't have the words to fill the emptiness in her gaze, so he contented himself with asking her if she was alright. She replied almost flippantly, admonishing him to worry about himself and about he mess in his proverbial living room. Of course, she couldn't just say exactly what she was thinking about, no one could. It was always easier to talk about something that meant nothing than something that really matters.

She was worried about the bodies. She began to talk about how they would start to smell soon, but she didn't know what to do with them, or how to move them there. He probably should have been insulted by her immediate conclusion that he would know exactly what to do with corpses, but he was suitably impressed by her practicality in dealing with the situation.

"You're going to want to dump them in the river."

She looked at him scathingly. "I hope you're about to tell me that you have a brilliant idea for their transportation."

"The boat. This lake is fed by the Seine. If you take the boat, and load the bodies onto it, the water is shallow enough that you can actually just walk alongside it and guide it through all the way to the river. It should be relatively easy. If you go through the grate, there is a tunnel to the far left. I suggest you take a lantern, as there isn't any natural light. Follow it for about half a mile, and it will open into a sewer. This will lead you to a sheltered spot under a bridge, where you can put some holes in the boat to sink it, and push it out to the river. Plenty of bodies turn up on those banks all the time, no one will even bother to investigate." She nodded in understanding, her face turning an interesting shade of green. "If you like, it can wait until I can do it myself, but by then..."

"The bodies will have begun to stink." She stood up briskly and rubbed her hands together nervously. "No, I can do it."

"Are you sure?" There were certain things that weren't polite to ask a lady to do, and he was fairly sure this was one of them.

"Are you impugning my ability to finish what I started? I killed them, it is only fair that I should dispose of them."

The way she lifted her chin and straightened her thin shoulders was both amusing and endearing, and he had seen that flash in her eyes before, so he knew better than to pose any further objections. He was also strangely relieved, perhaps because he was tired of death. He had seen death, and brought death, and cleaned up after it, and now he wanted nothing more to do with it. He would kill again if necessary, but he prayed that such a necessity would never arise. Better to distance himself from the monster he knew he had in him.

* * *

I had never felt so sick in my entire life. Even my unfortunate experience with a bottle of cheap wine at the age of fourteen was compared to this. That had been purely physical illness. This was disgusting and disturbing on more than one level; my heart and mind objected as much as my stomach. 

Here I was, dragging dead bodies-of men that I had killed, no less-into an ugly boat adorned with fake human skulls, preparing to sink them in the river. I hoped my mother was too occupied with happiness in heaven to see her daughter now; she was a practical woman, but she would have cried to see me. Unless she would have been proud of me for taking my life back. The problem was, I felt both pride in setting myself and Erik free, and guilt for the lives I had taken. What if they had families somewhere? Little girls who would never see their fathers again?

Any little girls these men had were better off without fathers, my more practical side told me. The world will be a better place with them gone. No one needs thugs-for-hire hanging around mucking up the world. Too bad I still felt terrible. In addition, I was afraid that if I stopped feeling bad, then I was nothing but a cold-hearted murderer. And then I felt worse. Trying to focus on what they did to Erik, I gave one last tug, and the body of the second lackey fell into the little boat. Only Leon left now.

Dragging what was left of him across the stone floor, I felt no more pity, no more remorse. I knew him for the monster he was, and I knew that he deserved death. After all, I wasn't trying to be his judge; I was just speeding his meeting with God. And I was sure God would agree with my logic.

I wasn't sure exactly how I managed to get three full grown dead men into the boat, but I did, and was perversely proud of myself when I tied them loosely into place. I collected a lantern to attach to the front of the boot, and changed into the oversize boots that I had worn upon my arrival here. It wasn't as though I had any great attachment to them, and the thought of trudging through a sewer in dainty slippers made me want to just forget the whole endeavor. With a final check on Erik, who was now fast asleep, I stepped into the murky water, and was on my way.

* * *

Erik awoke from an uneasy sleep to find Remy gone. The disgusting purple tonic had done its work, and left him with a only a very dull pain, and the feeling that he could sleep forever. Or just until Remy returned. He was worried about her, wandering through dark sewer tunnels by herself, but she was a capable woman, and it wasn't as if his worrying could do anything to hep her. 

He closed his eyes with a sigh, ready to sink back into sleep, when footsteps made him sit upright. They were coming from the door of the mirrored room; soft, careful footsteps. He reached to the bedside table next to him for the knife Remy had placed there 'just in case,' and tucked it under the blankets so that he appeared unarmed.

As the footsteps drew nearer, his muscles tensed in preparation; they were near the organ now, and would soon find him.

Then he heard a familiar voice call his name, and he let the knife fall to the floor.

**A/N: I wonder who that could be? Anyone care to take a guess? Lollipops for everyone who gets it right! **


	36. New Aquaintance

**A/N: If you have not seen the Phantom special edition, go find yourself a copy now! It has a deleted scene with just the Phantom, singing a song. So beautiful. I thought that having it would inspire me to write more, but free time is at a premium right now. Give me a week, and things will improve.**

**Call Me Camille, Mowgui, Kate September and Jinx-you win a prize! Yay for you!**

**WriterR, Jaini Kenobi- No fair making more than one guess. There are only so many people it could be.**

**LenisVox- there is enough gore and raunch floating around in the fanfic universe that I don't feel obligated to make them big in this story. **

* * *

Just don't think about it, I admonished myself, feeling somethingbump against my leg in the murky water. If I didn't look, I could pretend it wasn't there. Whatever it was. My morbid imagination quickly conjured images of giant water-dwelling snakes, schools of flesh-eating fish, and hordes of rats that just happened to enjoy swimming underwater. It was just a piece of garbage, something non-living and not at all dangerous. Maybe it was a corpse.

I knew I was being completely idiotic, but my courage had disappeared once the light from Erik's candles had faded, leaving me with only one pale lantern for guidance and safety. At least I couldn't get lost, small comfort though that was. The tunnels seemed to extend interminably in either direction, and I was surrounded on all sides by utter darkness, the potent kind so alive that it stirs the mind to create such fantastic creatures as I had.

The smells didn't help much, either. A vast array of aromas, each one more piercing than the last, invaded my senses, making me feel as though I might faint, despite my disgust for women who did so. I prayed that I was nearing the opening of the tunnel, but in this blackness, I had no sense of distance traveled or time elapsed. I could have gone one mile or a thousand for all that I could tell. The scenery never changed, and the only differentiating aspects to be found were the cracks in the walls and the amount of slime that coated them.

If I had only had to walk, this distance would not seem so insurmountable, but the combined effort of slogging through the thick water and pushing the boat before me threatened to make me collapse before I reached the end. Sometimes the water only reached calf depth, but at points, it went up to my waist, making my journey painfully hard. My arms and shoulders, already worn from dragging the bodies into the boat to begin with, ached, and the rough wood of the boat was slowly rubbing away the soft skin of my hands. The water did nothing to make my boots more comfortable, and I could feel blisters forming on my heels and toes.

Finally, when I thought I would cry from sheer desperation, I saw a gleam of light, far away but getting steadily stronger. My energy was renewed by this hopeful sight, and after my eternity in darkness, found myself at a covered sewer opening that spewing its contents into the river. The neighborhood, or what little I could see of it from my sheltered location, did not appear to be one of great repute. All kinds of garbage floated in the murky water and lay strewn about the shores. From this, I assumed that I was far away enough from the opera house that no one would make the connection, and in the sort of locale in where a few dead bodies would not be of any great note.

The very faintest glimmer of light was beginning to show around the edge of the horizon as I slashed holes in the thin bottom of the boat and pushed it away from the sewer entrance. For a moment, I watched as it slid into the middle of the river, getting lower every second until it disappeared completely. I didn't wait to see if the bodies would float as Erik had warned they might. With one last breath of fresh air, I returned to the darkness I had emerged from. The walk was faster this time, with no boat to push, but I was more tired this time, and my steps were slower as I pushed through the slime.

I felt as though I had been walking for days, and my arm was beginning to get tired from holding the lantern aloft, so I paused for a moment, and leaned against the wall, too tired to care that I was probably getting all manner of sewer filth on my clothes. In that moment, I once again felt something brush against me, and this time it seemed to wrap around my legs. All my capacity for logic gone, I screamed; the wretched creatures of my imagination once again springing to my fevered mind. In my haste to scramble away from whatever it was, I felt the lantern slip through my unsteady fingers, and fall with a splash into the water. For a split second, it remained on the surface, lighting the water beneath it, and then it was gone, extinguished, leaving me in total darkness.

I am ashamed to say that I panicked. The light gone, my sanity left as well. With a strength that can only be fueled by fear, I ran; pushing through the darkness with mad force. I stumbled once, landing on my hands and knees in the murky water, splashing my clothes and face. When I got up, I felt disoriented, and realized that I wasn't entirely sure which way I had come from; my intuition told me to move forward, and I followed it, praying that I hadn't somehow been turned around in my fall. I kept my hands pressed to the wall, fearful that if I did not, I might loose my sense of direction once more, and make a terrible error.

I can only imagine what a horror I must have looked when I finally saw the glimmer of candlelight beckoning me forward. My clothing was wet and torn, my hair had come loose from its careful braid, and I was literally shaking with terror. I resolved in that moment that nothing in the world could induce me to live in this place. Erik would have to be mad to stay once I offered an alternative. I would not-no, could not-live like this.

I pulled myself onto the dry rock floor and sat there, silently letting tears stream down my face as the water from my hair and clothes dripped off my soaking body and pooled on the cold ground. I took deep breaths, trying to calm myself; I hardly wanted to admit that I was horribly frightened by nothing more sinister than the dark and my own imagination.

As I sat, collecting myself, I heard a voice, coming from the bedroom. At first I thought that it must be Erik, for who else would be here? It was silent for a moment, and then I heard it again, louder this time. It was clearly a woman's voice.

I did not even wait to think, or to ponder my actions in any way. Getting abruptly to my feet, I dashed up the steps as quickly as my tired legs would allow, and threw myself into the room.

I also very nearly though myself into a thin, stern looking woman who was standing by Erik's bedside, but the very intimidating expression on her face stopped me. She was neither very tall, nor very old, but something about her made me feel like a school girl about to get scolded by her teacher. I felt her eyes travel from the tips of my soggy boots to the top of my scraggly head, and a blush rose to my cheeks. This was ridiculous; I was no child, but her gaze made me feel foolish and immature. I recalled having seen this look on the faces of society matrons, and it always made me feel less than important.

"You must be the Mademoiselle Neuvillette that I have heard so much about. It is a pleasure to meet you in person." Her voice had the same ice as her eyes, and she spoke with the perfect Parisian accent so prized in high society.

I swept her a brief curtsy, letting my eyes drift to Erik to silently plead for help. He was wearing his mask again, but I could still make out the amusement in his eyes and the wry almost-smile that played about his lips.

"A pleasure to meet you as well, Madame..."

"Giry. I assume Erik has not mentioned me to you."

"No, Madame, I fear Erik is hardly conversational." I don't know how I managed to spit out a coherent sentence when she was so clearly appraising me with her eyes, her nose slightly wrinkling in a face that would have looked childish were it not for the sharpness of her features.

"Of course, he has little practice, you must excuse him." She smiled then, almost kindly, as if our shared experience of Erik was enough for her to forget that I was standing before he dripping in sewer sludge. "Really, Erik, what have you been making this poor girl do? She looks terrible!"

Well, maybe not.


	37. Betrayal

**A/N: I humbly beg forgiveness for being so horribly late-no real excuse, just been preoccupied (mostly just watching The Movie over and over again). Enjoy and review!**

Madame Giry's visit had thrown him so off balance that he had forgotten the errand Remy had embarked upon. Now, looking at her, he wished he had found a way to make her wait until he could do it himself; she looked thoroughly rattled by the venture. He noticed that she had returned without a lantern; he knew from experience that wandering in sewer tunnels without light was harrowing at best.

Even with that regret firmly in mind, he could not help but be amused by her reaction to Madame Giry; Remy looked for all the world like one of the many ballet rats that the woman had frightened into greatness. He felt a little sorry for her, she looked so intimidated by the older woman's presence, but the way her eyes widened under Giry's icy gaze was truly priceless. Even he, in all his rage, had never set her speechless like this.

He did hope that Giry would go easy on the poor girl; she had been through so much in a few short weeks, the last thing she needed was to be scrutinized by a woman famous for her ability to find faults in young women. Thankfully, the older woman seemed to hear his silent plea, and adopted a more conversational tone. Normally, he would not have liked anyone commenting on certain facets of his character, but if they needed to discuss him in order to bond, he did not mind. He saw Remy visibly relax, and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Really, Erik, what have you been making this poor girl do? She looks terrible!" Her tone was joking, but there was concern in her eyes.

"She was taking care of some things that needed to be disposed of." He replied tersely. There was no need to earn any more of her ill opinion that he had with his past escapades. She didn't appear satisfied with his answer, though, and he had never really been able to keep the truth from her for long.

"Bodies, actually. We were attacked."

Madame Giry turned to face him, lifting one eyebrow high in an expression he knew so well.

"It's a rather long story, I'm afraid." Remy cut in. "And not at all Erik's fault, I might add."

Now Madame Giry turned her disapproval on poor Remy. "You are awfully quick to defend him, Mademoiselle."

"If you must know, Madame, I was disposing of the bodies of men that I killed. Erik was, in fact, merely a bystander. I am not defending him, I am stating the events as they occurred."

There was the Remy he admired so much. He didn't like being relegated to the role of bystander, but her eagerness to clear his honor at her own expense was touching.

"I see." Madame Giry looked unconvinced.

* * *

For reasons beyond my own comprehension, I hated the thought that this Giry woman would think badly of Erik. I did not know what their relationship was, but I fancied I could see the pain in his eyes when she assumed that he had killed once more. Who was she to come dancing into Erik's home and accuse him of murder? 

"What brings you to the opera house, Madame?"

"I wished to assure myself of Erik's continued health."

There was guilt in her voice, barely detectable, but enough to make me suspicious. "Had you a specific reason for believing his health might be in some jeopardy?"

The woman straightened her already poker-stiff back, and glanced from Erik to me and back again.

"I am actually here to ask Erik's forgiveness. The intruders-the men you killed, mademoiselle- I told them how to get here. I revealed the entrance to them."

Erik's face grew paler than usual, and his hands clenched into fists. Madame Giry drew a shuddering breath.

"You are bent on my destruction, aren't you, Madame?" His voice was so cold that I shook, even though his rage was not aimed at me. "First you lead the Viscomte straight to me, then you reveal my presence to men who almost killed me. What should I expect next?"

"Erik, you must understand-"

"Understand what? That you, who brought me here in the first place, would be the cause of my destruction? Why? In God's name, why?"

So, she was the reason he lived here. I had often wondered how it was he had ended up below the opera house, and wished I could ask, but it didn't seem appropriate to interrupt. Erik's face was contorted beneath the mask, and he was trembling with the strength of his anger. No wonder, when he had just been betrayed by someone he so obviously respected.

"They threatened my daughter, Erik, there was nothing else I could do. I would have gone to the police, but your living situation really would preclude me from doing so, don't you think?" There was sadness in her voice now, buried though it was underneath layers of politeness and restraint.

I watched the scene unfold, feeling very far away. Neither took any notice of me, so intent they were on each other.

"You could have lied, Madame! You could have come and warned me! You could have done any number of things, but you didn't! Why? Is this some form of revenge?

"Revenge? Only a mind like yours would assume that."

Actually, I might have assumed the same thing, but again, pointing that out would hardly contribute a great deal to the discussion.

"For Christine! For the Opera Populaire! For Piangi! Take your pick!"

"I blame myself for Christine as much as I blame you, Erik. I watched it happen, and was too afraid to stop it. The same goes for the opera house and for Piangi-they were all part of the same disaster."

I got the feeling that I shouldn't be here, watching these two tear at each other, so I edged out of the room, and down the stairs, with the intention of washing the worst of the slime off me. As I crept down the hall, I was almost missed the sound of softly shuffling feet, my ears still ringing with Erik's angry words. I stopped in my tracks, the whirled around and sprinted down the hall to the mirror room door, where for the second time in a few short hours, I nearly collided with someone.

This time it was a young girl, no more than nineteen, with a cherub-like face, and long golden hair tied back in a way that accentuated her round features. There was no doubt in my mind that this girl was related to Madame Giry, probably her daughter. Her features were softer than her mother's, but the eyes, nose, and chin were the same.

She was now wearing the expression of a startled rabbit, so I forced out a strained smile to try to put her at her ease. She looked warily back at me, big blue eyes wide.

"I'm not going to bite, you know." I tried to sound jesting, but it came out harsher than I intended, and she stuttered for a moment, trying to think of something to say.

"I'm Remy." I interrupted. "And you are?"

"Meg...Meg Giry. Pleased to meet you." She gave an elegant dancer's curtsy, which I returned with much less grace.

"Madame Giry's daughter, I assume?" She nodded her head, curls bouncing, then inclined her ear toward the little room, where Erik and the elder Giry were still presumably talking. Now I could only hear hushed voices, so I hoped that meant Giry was talking some kind of sense into him.

"What's going on up there?" Came Meg's inquisitive voice.

"Your mother told him that she told the men where to find him, and he accused her of trying to kill him." She looked mournfully at the floor.

"She wasn't going to tell, you know, but they were going to kill me."

"I understand. The fault was partially mine anyway. They only came to kill me, and Erik was in the way."

"Kill you? Why?" Her voice was tinged with the excitement of a child about to hear an amusing story.

"I wouldn't marry one of them."

"Because you knew how horrible he was?"

"It wasn't hard to figure out after he accused me of murder and witchcraft." She gasped in shock.

"And Erik rescued you?"

"Something like that." I wasn't in the mood to give my whole story to this girl. Especially when I was feeling a little jealous of her perfect looks. "You know, Meg, you could do me a wonderful favor..."

"What?" She sounded a little suspicious.

"Nothing hard. I just don't know much of what happened here at the opera house before the fire, especially with Christine and Erik.."

"Well, I suppose I could tell you."

I led her to a pair of chairs, and sat down, ready to hear what promised to be a good story.


	38. Back to the World

**A/n: I have never before suffered so debilitating a bout of writer's block; I was so close to just giving up altogether, on the logic that I already knew how the story ended, so what did it matter if anyone else did? I went back over some of my reviews, and they gave me the inspiration to continue- in other words, the guilt trip needed to sit down and just write. If this chapter seems strained and broken up, it's because I wrote it in tiny bits and pieces, without being very inspired at the time. So, forgive me for this chapter, I promise not to wait so long before writing the next.**

**Now, to address some of my reviews-**

**Thank you so much for your kind words, they have helped me so much!**

**Queen of Perfectionism- My dialogue tends to be choppy and gross because I hate writing it. I apologize. Also, I'm not sure why, but you and brigand both thought I started Remy out with dark hair. If you guys could try to find where I said she did and tell me, I would appreciate it, because I do want to keep her hair blond- I think it would have made her something of an oddity in the gypsy camp, and made it easier for her to blend in with the blond nobility of the French-German border.**

**Also, I didn't bother to include a great deal of background, as I assume you all know the story. As a side note, this is based almost entirely on the ALW/Movie version.**

Erik was dragging Christine down to his lair after a passionate performance of his opera when Madame Giry's footsteps on the stairs startled Meg out of her story. I was so drawn into her enthusiastic narrative that I stood up with a start, knocking my chair down behind me. Meg also stood, with more grace than I, and we turned simultaneously to face her mother like two guilty schoolgirls caught in some sort of mischief.

"I hope my daughter has been keeping you occupied, Mademoiselle Neuvillette."

"She is certainly the best company I have had in weeks, Madame" She smiled a little at that, and turned her eyes to her daughter. I could not help but note with some jealousy the warmth of affection on her thin face when she spoke to and looked at Meg.

"Oh yes, Meg is quite the storyteller. She was always a favorite among the little ballet girls."

"I can see why. How is Erik?"

"Sleeping. I imagine he will be for quite some time. You needn't worry about his bandages, I already took care of those. I suggest that he not be disturbed for a few hours." I nodded in agreement. "Have you anything less conspicuous you might wear?" She continued, bringing my attention to the fact that I was indeed still wearing my sewer-sludge encrusted clothing.

"I do."

"Well, go change into something else. You are running out of food, and I daresay you don't know your way to the market."

"Really, Madame Giry, I think it would be best if I stayed here, in case Erik wakes up."

"That won't be necessary. I already left him a note telling him where we are. Besides, my dear, he has lived by himself for years, I hardly think he requires your constant attention to survive. Now get changed quickly, so we can be done in a timely manner."

Her commanding tone sent me scurrying to the wash room, dress in hand, startled into attention by her manner. Within minutes, I was ready, as presentable as I could make myself with what little I had. Madame Giry looked me over, and shrugged her shoulders as if to say 'it'll do', and the three of us made our way out of the cave, through the mirrored room, and into the dusty hallways of the erstwhile opera house.

With Meg and I trailing behind Madame Giry like ducklings, we hastened through the backstage, down another hallway I had not seen before, and finally exited through a building that must have been a stable, but was now no more than a charred skeleton. The sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky; it was past noon. I must have spent hours in the tunnel on the way back, and even longer sitting with Meg while she related the details of Erik's tragic past and scandalous obsession with one Mademoiselle Daae, now the Vicomtess de Chagny.

I must admit, I was disappointed to learn the lengths that Erik went to in order to obtain the girl's affection and loyalty. I had rather hoped that the whole affair was more wishing and far less actual contact. The depths of his obsession were horribly frightening; it was always considered romantic to have a husband or a lover who would die for you, but Erik killed for Christine.

"You don't look like a gypsy, Mademoiselle." Madame Giry's voice cut through my thoughts abruptly. Apparently, Erik had shared pieces of my past with her.

"I fear I was cursed with the look of my father, Madame."

"Your father was not a gypsy?"

"No, Madame. A nobleman."

"I see."

She ceased questioning me for a few moments, as we passed out of the nearly empty neighborhood surrounding the opera house, and moved towards th more inhabited part of Paris. She caught me glancing over my shoulder at the blackened building, lonely in its lost grandeur.

"This used to be a lovely neighborhood, you know. After the fire, though, and all the rumors surrounding it, several businesses closed or moved, and people just stopped coming here."

"I'm very sorry to hear that." I wasn't entirely sure what kind of response she wanted from me, and I was too distracted to really bother entering into a stimulating conversation.

"I'm sure that it will find it's feet again soon enough. Only a few buildings outside the opera house were damaged. The superstition was more harmful than the actual fire, I believe."

This time, I said nothing at all in response, and she let the silence lie there.

Meg's story still filled my mind, and the more I reflected, the more anxious I grew to return to the opera house and to Erik. Perhaps he had learned his lesson; perhaps I need not worry that he would revert to his previous ways of interacting with people, especially women. At this point I couldn't really be sure, but knowledge of how he had seduced Christine with music made me all the more anxious to remove him from the opera house, abandoned though it may be. Furthermore, I had no idea what had happened to Christine following the performance of _Don Juan_, and feared it might be something terrible. There was only a certain amount of corruption I was willing to forgive before I resolved upon leaving for my own safety. To satisfy my curiosity, I asked Madame Giry what had become of the pair after Christine removed Erik's mask on stage. She looked as though she knew the question was coming, and wasted no time in answering it.

"No one knows but Christine, Raoul, and Erik himself; what happened directly after he abducted her has remained their secret. All I know is that Erik allowed Christine and Raoul to leave, and Christine has assured me that he did nothing to defile her honor, that he actually wanted to marry her. Other than that, she told me nothing before leaving with the Viscomte."

"So she and the Viscomte were married?"

"They are. Very happily so, I am told. Meg gets letters every now and then, but I believe the Viscomtess would rather forget this part of her life and move on."

"Understandable." I was suitably relieved that Erik hadn't done anything horrible to Christine after dragging her to his lair. And I took it as a positive sign that his intention had been marriage; that desire indicated a certain amount of honor, I thought.

By this time, we had reached a small business district, crowded with tiny stores, even smaller produce stands, and people. More people than I had seen in a long time. The crowd was not large, considering the surroundings, but I felt a disconcerting rush of something that felt like fear. I didn't like to think of the implications that arose from this emotion; if my small dose of solitude was enough to make me suddenly uncomfortable in a crowd, then how much more nervous would Erik be if I managed to reach my ultimate goal of prying him out of his lonely existence?

As Madame Giry and her daughter took the actual act of shopping into their very capable hands, I simply watched, and absorbed the sights, sounds, and smells that I had been denied these past weeks. The longer I just allowed myself to breathe it all in, the less nervous I became, and hope began to seep into my soul. This was how it would be for Erik, also, I decided. He would be scared, and he would resist, and he would try to make himself invisible again, but once he realized the joy of ;living in the daylight, of walking in a crowd, he would thank me.

Madame Giry broke my reverie by handing me a basket laden with a wide variety of fruits, cheese, and bread. Without a word, she led me out of the crowd and back towards the opera house, with Meg trotting merrily along behind us. We traveled in silence, each of us consumed by our own thoughts. The only sound now was the fading noise of the marketplace, and Meg's absentminded humming of some obscure opera tune.

Before I even knew it, we were at the entrance to the stable, and Madame Giry was asking me if I could find my way in alone. I responded that I could, and she told me that she would leave me to go see Erik alone, as he had probably had enough company for the day. I nodded an assent, and turned to go, but she grabbed hold of my hand, and told Meg to go on ahead.

"There is something you ought to know, Mademoiselle." She took a breath and her eyes bore into mine. "The Opera has been purchased by a rich English investor, who lacks the superstition that kept all other buyers away. He intends to rebuild it within a year; a daunting task, I might add. Then he wishes to reopen."

I just looked at her.

"I told Erik, so I thought you might wish to know."

"A year? Reopen the opera house?" My mind was too busy processing the danger of this new information to say anything except repeat what had already been said.

"I don't know what your intentions with Erik are, my dear, but I fear you may have underestimated his attachment to this place, ruined and lonely though it may be."


	39. Becoming a Ghost

**A/N: Again, sorry about the delay here, but I'm getting better. This chapter will be more introspection, now that we are getting ever closer to the end of their stort. Please keep reviewing, you know how happy it makes me!**

When I returned, Erik was awake, though not entirely responsive. When I asked him how he was feeling, he looked at me somewhat blankly, then shrugged somewhat dismissively. I took that to mean that he was fine, and didn't press the question. I needed to figure out how to diplomatically broach the subject of leaving, learn his feelings on the matter, and then come up with a decent argument for why he shouldn't stay, if what Madame Giry warned me was true. Considering my lack of rhetorical training, this could be difficult.

So, I let him just lie there, a faraway look in his eyes, while I kept myself busy racking my poor, overused, undertrained mind for a way to force him from his lethargy. For a whole day and night, I walked around uselessly, changing Erik's bandages once, but otherwise just wandering the limited confines of his home. On the second day, I hoped to find him more responsive, but though he greeted me with a look that resembled a smile, he merely asked for something to eat, and when I brought it, pleaded with me with those eloquent eyes of his to leave him alone. I thought it best to acquiesce.

Too full of worry to enjoy reading, and too easily bored to be happy in the cave that was beginning to seem more and more like a prison, I ventured into the ashy hallways of the opera house. The more I studied my surroundings, the more I realized that a hasty reconstruction would be possible: most of the most important foundations were still in place, and entire hallways were unscathed, just covered in the dust and ash that resulted from the fire. Most of the statuary was also intact, coated with the same dismal gray blanket as the rest of the building, but one could make out the beauty beneath. The farther I wandered, the more I began to feel like a ghost myself, albeit an ineffective one that haunted a house already thick with death.

As I explored, my mind ran over the past few days. It was a terrible revelation to me that all the progress I seemed to have made, growing close to Erik, making him trust me, appeared to have vanished into the endless night that surrounded us. He was as distant now as he was when we first met, no doubt drawn into a contemplation of all he could do once the Opera Populaire reopened. The only difference now was that he was willing to look me in the eye; and that was only a cold comfort.

How many hours before had it been since I had burst through these doors for the first time, desperate and full of pure, animalistic fear? How many hours since that first brush with Leon's men, when I first saw Erik's face? How many hours since I had again entered the opera house, this time with my heart full of the promise of love, the idealism of a girl who believes that anything is possible, as long as her love is returned? The days, hours, minutes, seconds, all bled together in a murky haze, time having no meaning in a place with no light, no way to track the sun as it makes its rounds. I began to feel hot tears well in my eyes, blurring my vision, not as though there was much to see in the dim light a single lantern afforded me. They ran slowly down my cheeks, leaving tracks in the grime that inevitably stuck to my face as I tramped down the hallway, raising ash in my wake.

Ash and tears, darkness and blood, all ran together in my mind, a complete picture of life in this wasteland. One was the girl so full of hope; now there was only desperation once more, bringing my emotions ful circle, back to my first arrival. This time though, the walls were not a comfort, a hiding place, but a trap. First there had been desperation to get in, to find a dark place to hide. Now there was only the need to be gone, to enter the sunlight once more. Stolen glances from a rooftop would never be enough, nor would hasty trips to the marketplace. I had to live in the world, to interact with people. I didn't realize until the Girys were gone how much I had missed conversation, even as strained as it was with Madame Giry. I was still sure that I loved Erik, still sure that I wanted him with me for my whole life. I still felt my heart quicken when I felt his eyes on me, or remembered the way it had felt to just lie next him and fall asleep to the sound of his heart beating.

There was another thing I had yet to think of, one of many that needed to be turned over in my mind now that I had the time and relative sanity to think. When he woke up and found me next to him, what was he thinking? Was he happy, annoyed, confused, all of the above, none of the above? One would think he could have managed some small semblance of a reaction, but there was nothing readable in his eyes, nothing that I could make upon waking. Granted, he was in a lot of pain at the time, but even that didn't show. Furthermore, there was the slight matter that in comparison to his past love, the beautiful, young, talented opera star, with the voice of an angel and all that, I was hardly anything to look at. At my best, I looked decent. Now, however, I was mostly scraggly, possibly pitiable, and decidedly unattractive.

Damn Christine Daae and all her angelic looks. I comforted myself with the thought that she wouldn't have survived what I had, that she might have been beautiful, but I was of a hardier breed. She was prettier, that was certain, but would she have had the strength of character to achieve all that I had, when seeing Erik's face had been enough to send her running? I was immediately ashamed of myself for judging the poor girl so harshly when I didn't even know her. After all, she was only, what, seventeen? Of course she had fled, I would have as well, as I told Erik. Will to survive, will to tenaciously hold on to what little you have, those only come with age and experience, once you have realized which things in life are worth the fight.

I almost smiled to myself at the thought that I was thinking like someone's grandmother, at my advanced age of twenty-eight. Not that my life was that of the average twenty-eight year old; I like to think I had picked up more wisdom than most women my age. Never mind that with all my supposed life experience, I still couldn't think of how to make Erik leave this place.

Strange, how when left to its own devices, the mind will drag one around in circles, always coming back to whatever subject one least wishes to consider. So it was with me; every step I took, I seemed to find another hint that Erik's continued presence here would destroy him, even if I stayed, an event that was highly unlikely. Interesting that I considered myself the cure for his ills. Was that realistic of me, or just pompous?

In any case, I had to stop thinking. My head was starting to hurt, though that headache could have been induced by me squinting to attempt to see in the thick darkness. Erik must have eyes like a cat to do what he did, all his wandering through tunnels and leaping through rafters.

Alright, enough was enough. He'd had three days to recover; surely that was plenty of time for him to get better. I knew that was entirely unreasonable, but I had to just finish this. I had to know whether I was to go to Marseille alone, or with Erik at my side. Surely, even if he was not physically able to leave, he could still decide that he wanted to. He must have the mental clarity to know that he should come with me; he would agree, and then I could wait for him to make a full recovery in a much lessened state of anxiety. Once I knew that he was staying, I could just relax, and be a companion to him, instead of wandering around the halls of the soon to be rebuilt Opera Populaire, like some restless spirit.

He would agree. He had to agree. Much as I would have liked to think that my intentions were entirely charitable, that I was only doing what was best for him, I knew that I wanted him beside me for more than just the warm feeling one gets from helping someone less fortunate. I was afraid of beginning my life anew, even with the loyalty of a good friend awaiting me. I was scared that once I again emerged into the light, I would find myself the same as I was before; either a boring old maid with aristocratic pretensions, or a scared witless little rabbit, who could not sleep for fear of the vivid dreams that come to her when she did.


	40. Counterpoint

**A/N: I know, I am a horrible, horrible person. First I leave you hanging for three months, then I give you a little tiny chapter, with very little real action. I'm sure very other fanfic author knows that the hardest thing to write is the end, and I am so close! Anyway, my only excuses are a full time job during the summer, and going off to college in the fall. Yeah, reality sometimes does have to take precedence over fiction. Ok, enough about me. Thank you so much to every one who reviewed while I sat at my computer and tried to remember where I was going with this plot. I appreciate your encouragement and support wholeheartedly. So, tell me what you think, and I may have a new chapter for you by Monday.**

The first day he was too busy wallowing in the double anguish of his physical pain, and the emotional pain brought on by Madame Giry's betrayal to actually be able to say anything worthwhile to Remy. On the second day, he felt like he ought to at least thank her for her faithful care, and constant attention to his needs, but all he could manage to do was look at her and hope she understood. There was far too much happening in his mind to find the right words to say in such a highly delicate situation.

She had come back, so presumably she wanted to stay, but she may have since changed her mind. A trip through the sewers could do that to a person. Or, perhaps she hadn't wanted to stay at all. Perhaps she had forgotten something, or wanted to say goodbye once more, or...or what? There was no good reason for her to return unless she meant to stay. Unless she somehow found out what Leon was planning, and had come to aid him? But how would she have known? There wasn't a way for her to find out; no, she must have wanted to stay with him. It was the only explanation for her behavior, much as he might try to talk himself out of it.

And now the Opera Populaire was to be rebuilt. He had spent a lonely, useless year here in utter solitude, the like of which he had never known, alone and uninspired. Now, the performers would return, bringing music in their wake, music that could once more feed his soul while he lived in darkness.

So now he would have the two things in his life he had wanted most of all-the love of a woman, unless he was completely mistaken, and music. He should be happy, but so much could go wrong. She could change her mind, and decide that she must go to Marseille. Or perhaps she might wish to stay, but would it be dangerous for her here? Would it be dangerous for him? Everyone with any sense must think him dead, and those who didn't would certainly wish him dead. They knew he was just a man now, though doubtless some were still afraid of the phantom he turned himself into. If they thought he was alive, they would come searching for him, and there would be nowhere left for him to run. Even if they left him alone at first, soon his presence must be made known, and then they would hunt him. They hadn't found his lair before, but that was because they were all too busy fleeing the fire that destroyed the opera house in the first place, and after that, no one wanted to enter the building.

This kind of thinking was hardly constructive, but he was so used to seeing only the possible evil in every situation, that finding the hidden glimmers of hope did not come easily. His thoughts were all pushed into nothingness when he heard Remy's light footsteps and the opening of the door from the mirror chamber. These past two days, she had taken to wandering around alone, which perhaps meant that she was simply trying to accustom herself to the building. Either that, or she was going insane from living underground, and even the ashy hallways of Opera Populaire were preferable to the even more intense gloom below. He rather hoped it was the first.

* * *

When I returned to my candle-lit prison, I didn't go see Erik right away. I knew I probably should have, as his present condition was at least partially my fault, but I didn't know what I was going to say. I had yet to develop that inner security that allows one to exist without words in difficult situations; I always felt the need to fill silence with words, and knowing Erik, any words spoken would need to be mine. I subconsciously knew that I shouldn't expect him to be a brilliant conversationalist with a bullet wound in his leg and broken fingers, but a few words of encouragement, along the lines of 'I'm feeling much better' would be a welcome addition to my current existence.

I sank into one of the chairs at the table, and turned my attention to the matter at hand. Should I let Erik bring up the matter of the intended reconstruction first, or should I ask him about it myself? It was probably a better idea to just mention it first, then let him expand upon it if he wished. That way I could figure out whether he intended to stay, and whether he thought I was going to stay with him. I stood, and was ashamed to find that my knees were weak with fear. It occurred to me that a single conversation might very well decide my future.

* * *

Why did she remain at the bottom of the stairs where he could not see her face, read her expressions, figure out what it was she wanted? With strength born of frustration, he lifted his torso off the pillows, and swung his legs over the side of the bed so that he was sitting up. He ignored the jabs of pain that shot through his leg and the dull ache of his fingers as he reached for his robe, and wrapped it around himself. From force of habit, he reached for his mask, but decided against wearing it. If she did want to stay with him, she would have to see his face occasionally, and she had not objected before.

His descent from the room must have startled her out of some very heavy thoughts, as she did not even notice him making his laborious way down the stairs until he reached the bottom, and she jumped from her seat when she saw him. She stopped a few feet in front of him, with anxiety in her every expression, and looked him over, as if to make sure he was indeed alive.  
"You shouldn't be walking around, you know." She told him, in a matter-of-fact tone that did little to conceal the worry that clouded her eyes.  
"You needn't worry so much, my dear."  
She stood silent for a moment, then took a hesitant step towards him, and reached her hand up to brush his stringy brown hair back into place. His mind seemed to fog over with the idea that she would touch him so willingly, and while he tried to recover, she compounded his confusion by standing on her toes to brush her lips first to the smooth skin on the left side of his face, then to the monstrosity on the right.

**A/N: Yeah, I'm evil **


	41. The Question

**A/N: Alright people, we are counting down to the end, here, coming up on the finish line, etc, etc.**

Oh God, what had I done? As I pulled away, I saw shock and confusion in his eyes, hardly the effect I had been hoping to have. What had I been hoping for? I hardly knew, but I was completely sure that I had made a mistake. Had I managed to entirely misjudge his feelings? But he had called me, "my dear"; was that politeness or actual feeling? And now looking up at him, his face was completely blank; he wasn't reacting at all.

What had I been thinking? Was he disgusted by my forwardness? I could feel my hands begin to shake, and I buried them in my skirt so that he could not see how afraid I was. Damn him, why didn't he say something, do something, anything? It couldn't have been more than a few seconds, but it felt as though I stood there for hours waiting for him to acknowledge my admittedly rash actions. Please, please say something, or I will go mad waiting, I silently begged him. He must have heard what I was too frightened to say, and in a single moment, my whole world dissolved into nothingness as he pressed his lips to mine.

* * *

He knew he shouldn't, but her eyes were pleading with him to respond, and he had no mind left to think of words that would express what he wished to say. He could hardly believe it when she didn't pull back, but instead ran her hands up his arms and across his shoulders, where they came to rest clinging to his neck as if he was all that supported her. He tentatively placed his bandaged hands around her waist and she responded by pressing her body closer to his. She was so close he could feel the quick beat of her heart, and the labored rise and fall of her chest. Everything around them receded into darkness, until there was nothing in the universe but the woman in his arms.

* * *

All the objections, fears, worries, and memories that constantly tore at my mind had left, driven away by the feeling of his lips on mine, and his hands pressing into my back, then sliding upwards to caress my neck, as well as the heavy coverings would allow him. If I was right, and there was a heaven, surely it must be something like this; this feeling that the earth could cease its turning, but this moment would remain intact, and nothing mattered but the fact that I was in love, and loved in return by the man I always wanted to be near. 

But, like everything in this world that is perfect and beautiful, this moment could not last, and I felt a tremor go through Erik's body that signaled an imminent collapse. I pulled back unwillingly, and whispered gently that he should sit down. We staggered together towards a chair, both unwilling to break contact completely, still grasping each other's hands. He sat, and I knelt down beside him, and looked up at his face, set into a grimace of pain.

"I would be very grateful, Remy, if you would find me that bottle of pain reliever once again." He rasped, trying so hard to not let me see how weak he was. I complied wordlessly, and brought it to him, and after a few moments, the anguish in his eyes subsided, and his eyes closed, allowing me to study his face intently, without him noticing.

The disfigurement of his face, which had so shocked me when I first saw it, began to grow less obvious each time I looked at him; in light as low as this, it was hardly anything at all. It was certainly not a reason for him to avoid society completely. Where he had been born, there was more superstition, more fear of differences, more of an old-fashioned mentality, so there was really no wonder he had been shunned. Paris, I am certain, would have been more accepting, had he not hidden himself under the opera house and murdered people. That, of course, would not be mentioned when he and I went to Marseille. Monique, she would understand why I loved him, she would be able to help; if she was indeed as well-established as she appeared in her letters, her words would have influence with the people of the town. I could almost hear her conversations:

'Yes, Remy is an old friend of mine, who recently moved here from Paris'…no, it would be better not to be from Paris, in case someone had heard stories, unlikely though it seemed. '…moved here from Rouen. I'm sure she would love to come to dinner, but her husband is not comfortable in company…' Husband, of course, we would need to be married, or the whole thing would seem guilty and suspicious. 'Yes, the poor man was born with a dreadful deformity…he only wears the mask for the comfort of those around them…' For he would want to wear the mask, of that I was sure. 'He's quite a brilliant composer, though- you ought to hear him play…'

I was so lost in my thoughts and my schemes with my unsuspecting friend that I did not even notice Erik's bemused gaze.

"Are you quite well, Remy?"

"Yes, of course, just…" I fumbled, not wishing to bring up what I was actually scheming about.

"Plotting?" Damn him for seeing right through me.

"Plotting? What on earth would I be plotting about?"

"I won't be so bold as to presume to know about what, but I know when your thoughts are elsewhere. I only pray they are not in Marseille."

Oh God, this was The Moment. I could not lie to him, and say they were not, he would know I wasn't telling the truth. The only thing left to me was to tell him…

"You needn't feel as though you must answer, you know." Or maybe I didn't have to. "Not now, in any case." Relief flooded through me, the relief of a coward who knows what she must do, but is too frightened to do it. He had told me I needn't answer his question which was not really a question, but his eyes were still asking me to explain what I wanted. I couldn't, so I pressed my lips to his, in hopes of quelling the desperate panic rising in my chest.

* * *

Even her kisses and caresses could not convince him that her mind was at rest, that her heart was here with his. What was it that she wanted, what was it that she was planning when those blue eyes of hers drifted off and stared into nothingness. He had told her not to answer, but he knew he had to know, or he would be driven mad with waiting. Her hands reached to his shoulders, to pull him closer, but he could not survive that warmth until he knew that it was to be his forever, and he drew back.

Praying she could not see his hands shaking, he breathed deeply, and threw his fate at her feet.

"Stay with me?"

**A/N: So, fans, new readers and everyone who had the good fortune to find this link, this is the moment you have all been waiting for…I am now dangling Remy and Erik's combined fates over you. Will she sacrifice for the man she loves, and stay with him, no matter what? Will she ask him to come with her instead? Will he say yes, if she does? Don't worry, you'll find out soon...once I have enough reviews to satisfy my greed for praise! Mwuuhaaahaaaa!**

**So yeah, you wanna know what happens? Just hit that handle little link, and tell me how much you hate me for ending a chapter like this.**


	42. Another Broken Heart

**A/N: Hugs and cupcakes to everyone who reviewed! Hope you like this chapter, cuz we're almost done! **

At that moment, my mind ceased to function entirely. My heart was pounding in my chest so loudly I thought I would go deaf. All I could see were Erik's perfect green eyes, glowing almost gold in the candlelight, begging me to say yes. Tell him you'll stay, my heart demanded. Throw yourself into his arms, and tell him you love him and want only to be with him…well, maybe I should be a little gentler than throwing; the last thing I wanted was to inflict some kind of injury on him. I turned my back to him; I couldn't let the look on his face persuade me into doing something I might later regret.

The darkness was not so bad, not when he was standing beside me; one could grow accustomed to it. And there was always the roof, should I need fresh air and sunlight. I remembered his arms around me when we danced on the roof, the feel of the breeze in my hair as the sun rose. How many more moments like that awaited me if I stayed? This time, I would bring him out of the shadows with me, and we could watch Paris coming alive below us. To stay would hardly be any great sacrifice. After all, I was unsure of our welcome there anyway; who knew what it would be like when we got there? Perhaps I ought to stay…

No! God, what was I thinking, what demon had entered my soul and allowed me even for a moment to contemplate that? I would die, here in this mockery of a home. I would rot without companionship, without a window to look out when the weather was fine, without bird songs to wake me. And what would happen when we had quarrels, Erik and I? For I knew we would, and then we would have no other company to seek, no way to distance ourselves from each other, before coming together again. We would be forced to rely on each other entirely, and that was a burden no person should have to bear. I knew I could not be his sole support, and he could not be mine. What of children? If I stayed, it would only be as his wife, and that would lead to children. How could we get a doctor? How could I force a child to live here? It was impossible, absolutely and completely impossible, and I would not allow myself to be persuaded otherwise. For the first time in my life, I felt with total certainty that my choice was the correct one, that I could have no true regrets following the course of action I had settled upon.

* * *

He saw her answer in her face before she said a word. He knew what she would say as soon as she turned back to face him once more.

"Forgive me, Erik, but I cannot…"

How could she say it so calmly? Did she even realize what it had cost him to ask? Had she no feelings, no sympathies, no heart at all? Her eyes were clear, almost cold, and her face was firmly set in determination. How dare she show him such affection, then throw it back in his face when he allowed himself to be vulnerable to her? Well, he would show no more weakness to her, let her regret her kisses. He felt anger rising in his chest, pushing away physical pain and sadness, and giving him strength.

"Erik…" Her voice was softer this time, pleading almost, but he would not allow her to escape from her rejection, would not let her finish whatever excuse she was to come up with.

"I wonder that you bothered to return at all, if you so despise my home." He could hear the chill in his own voice, and saw her face turn to an expression of confusion. "Why come back, and make me believe that you care, if you were only going to leave again anyway?"

"Erik, let me explain…"

"Believe me, your words need no explanation. Your refusal was clear, and you have said quite enough. Now tell me, what brought you back here? Pity for a monster? Or did you just need more money?" He dug his fingernails into his palms, pressing so hard he could feel them through the bandages.

* * *

Perhaps I ought to have been a little less firm in my response, but this was ridiculous. I heard the sense of betrayal in his voice, and felt I would have begun to cry, had he not suggested that my motives for returning were of such a callous nature.

"Come, Remy, why your false affection?" He had gone too far.

"You fool! Do you truly believe that I could be so unfeeling?" Again, that came out a little stronger than I had intended, but it produced the desired effect of stopping his ire, and giving me enough time to explain. "I want to be with you, but not like this."

He stood, facing me, seemingly frozen in place by my words.

"Erik, I came back because I knew I would regret it if I didn't. I came back because I've walked away from love once in this lifetime, and did not plan to do so again. I came back because…I think I'm in love with you."

My whole body was shaking, and I could see tears began to drip out of his eyes and down his cheeks, though he lowered his head to hide them.

"Then why…?"

"I want you to come to Marseille with me, Erik. I want to get you out of this cursed darkness, into the light."

He stood there, unmoving, the light from the candle's reflecting on the trails left by his silent tears.

* * *

He was so ashamed he could say nothing, so shocked he could not move. All he could do was stand there and let tears fall. He felt her hand on his face, gently caressing his cheek, but he could not look at her.

"Erik, please say something." He could hear the pleading in her voice, but how could her pity save him now?

"I can't." She was right, he was a coward, but it was too late for him to try to start his life again. He would be nothing but a burden to her, and she would come to resent him.

"What? Why in God's name not?" She was angry now, and her hand fell to her side.

"This face…"

"Erik, I don't care, I don't care about your face; please, you are being irrational."

"Irrational? Do you know nothing of the world? How can you possibly understand how much this face has cost me? You are a creature of the light, you deserve it. Go to Marseille and be happy there, you don't need me for that."

"But I do!" Now she was crying as well, and he wanted so badly to hold her, but he couldn't bring himself to move.

"And how do you envision our life together? Do you honestly believe that we would be happy there?" He could see their life together as clearly as if he was gazing into the future; he would hate her for exposing him to the world, she would hate him for not allowing her to live a life full of society.

"Of course I do, or I wouldn't have asked you to come with me." He should have known it was not in her nature to give up so easily. He had nothing to say, just stared at her. "The only reason you won't leave is because you are afraid to try. Do you really think that the entire world is full of evil?"

"You can't understand…" What did she know of what he had suffered at the hands of evil men?

"Please, spare me your condescension. I know very well the inhumanity humans are capable of. The real difference between us, Erik, is that you are only willing to see what is wrong with the world, and you are afraid to admit that there might be some good, because then you would be proven wrong."

* * *

I could see that my words were having no effect on him at all. How could I have been so arrogant as to think that I could force him from his life here? He was too set in his fear of life, too stubbornly broken to allow me to try to fix him. What a fool I had been to believe that I would be able to draw him from his half-lived life.

I would go, and he would stay. Perhaps in the re-opened opera house he would find some consolation for his pain, as I obviously could not provide him with any.

**A/N: What, you didn't think I was gonna make it easy, did you?**


	43. Purgatory

Once I realized that he was completely unwilling to come with me, I gave up. There was no point in pursuing that which could never be. Some dreams, I supposed, were made to be shattered, and I must accept that this, like so many of my other hopes, was such a dream. It would have been easier to just leave, and begin the slow process of healing a broken heart, but a sense of duty kept me at Erik's side for the next three days, while he recovered some of his lost strength.

If when he kissed me, I had been sent to heaven, I was now plunged into purgatory. We avoided speaking, for the most part; indeed, how we managed to stay so far apart when we were constantly in such close quarters, I will never know. Every time he looked at me, though, his eyes pleaded with me more eloquently than any words ever could have, and added to the weight of guilt on my heart.

For three days, I was on the brink of an emotional collapse, my feelings and reason in constant conflict. I wished I had the temperament which would allow me to make one dramatic show of emotion, to cathartically cleanse my mind of pain, but I was resolved to remain stoic. For if I allowed myself to break, Erik would try to comfort me, and if he did, I would not be able to resist the urge to beg his forgiveness and promise to stay.

And stay I could not; my sense of responsibility to myself, to Erik, and to any children I might one day produce was too strong to allow for such folly. Humans are not made for lives of solitude, my own upbringing in a family that included the entire clan taught me that. People thrive best when they have companionship, not just of their spouse, but of others. Madame Giry's visit had convinced me that I needed female companionship, and I could only imagine how much better off Erik would be if he had other men he could call his friends.

But this train of thought was counterproductive; I must begin to forget Erik, no matter how hard such a task was while I changed his bandages and lived in his home. Finally, on the evening of the third day, Erik broke our mutual silence by telling me that he could care for himself now, and that I ought to leave in the morning.

That night, I lay in the makeshift bed I had created out of excess blankets and pillows, and stared at the misty waters of the lake. Perhaps I would reach Marseille only to awaken, and realize that the whole thing had been nothing more than a dream, and find myself back in the countryside of Alsace. For who would ever believe that this was real, that I had been rescued by a masked man, a former murderer, who sang as though God himself had inspired his voice, and who had stolen my heart, completely without my consent?

I found myself weeping bitter tears into my pillow. I cried for my mother, who had been so consumed by her unrequited love for my father that her body simply wasted away. I cried for Stefan, who I had abandoned so long ago. I cried for Leon's parents, so deceived in their son, whom they had loved so much. I cried for Erik, who I now knew would never find a way to live, and who deserved happiness so much, happiness I could not give him. And I wept for myself; for the love I had left behind, for the children I would never have, and for the part of my heart that died that night. When all my tears were spent, I lapsed into an uneasy sleep, plagued by the nightmares that had followed me here, and attacked me once more now that I was alone.

* * *

It was better this way. For the last three days, he had willed his body to recover, so that this bitter limbo might finally end. Anything must surely be easier than this drawn-out pain; even watching her leave him for the last time. Every morning when he awoke and saw her, his heart leapt in his throat, and joy spread through him, until he remembered that she was only here until he was well enough to live without her help. But as the days dragged, he knew that no matter how much healthier his body grew, his soul would never survive without her. And yet he could not go with her; at least here he knew what he could expect; if he left, there would be too much uncertainty.

She would love him for a while, but what would happen when she met other men? Men who could go in public without masks, men who could love her without all the lingering fear and doubt that he must always have? She might cast him aside, and then he would have nothing, not even the cold comfort of familiarity. Here in the opera house, he had a set place, a place that would not change, that no one could shake him out of. In Marseille, he would be dependent upon Remy entirely, and he could not face that.

The next morning, when he saw Remy's slight frame stretched out on a pile of blankets on the floor, and saw a few thin scars across her back where her shirt had slipped down, it occurred to him that she might need him as much as he needed her, but he quickly reminded himself that he had thought the same about Christine. She awoke with a start when she heard him approach, and he thought he could see lingering fear in her eyes as though she had just awoken from a nightmare. Her calm demeanor would not allow him to entertain any thoughts of his being necessary for her comfort. She would survive, no matter what this world threw at her, even if he did not.

She quickly gathered the few things she owned, and accepted a few coins wordlessly. Still in silence, he escorted her to the exit through the mirrored room, and just before she went through the door, she turned to him, her blue eyes filled with tears he knew she would not allow to fall, and reached out her hand to grasp his.

"Thank you, Erik." She whispered, so low he could barely hear her. "For everything."

And then she was gone. He had been wrong; her absence did not make forgetting her easier. She was still everywhere. The blankets on the floor, the partly eaten food on the table, the pile of bandages next to his bed, all seemed to suggest that she was not really gone. He tried to calm down, and went to splash water on his face, but he nearly collapsed when he found a blue hair ribbon lying next to the washbasin, a relic of first Christine, then Remy. His final retreat was his music, but even there he could not find solace; the music he had written for her sat on the table, taunting him.

He had to get out; her memories were all around him, and they would not let him rest. Remy collapsing down the stairs, Remy holding him when he broke in front of him, and crying tears of pity onto his palms; he could see nothing but her blue eyes, her delicate hands, and the scars on her back. Her voice rang in his ears, comforting him, arguing with him, laughing at him, singing in her toneless, low voice in the hallways of the opera house.

He left his tomb, and without even seeing where he was going, paced the halls of the opera house like the madman he was. Before he realized it, he was on the roof, in the harsh light of morning; normally, he would stay to the shadows, but he had nothing left to protect. The warmth of the sun could do nothing to thaw the frozen feeling in his heart, as he gazed at the place where he had lost Christine, the place where he had first begun to realize what he felt for Remy. And now he had nothing left. He made his way to the edge of the roof, where the protection of the opera house ended, and stared at the street below him. Soon, that street would be full of people, and then they would encroach upon the opera house itself, rebuilding the burned-out shell, restoring former glory. Even the thought of the stage, lit by gas lights and full of music, did nothing to help him.

This life could not continue, he knew, staring at the emptiness around him. He could not live this life anymore; it was too much to bear alone. The Phantom of the Opera would be no more.

**A/N: Ok, people, one more chapter and an epilogue to go. Care to place any bets on the outcome?**


	44. La Fin

I never knew the human body could feel so numb. As I trudged to the train station, my brain wearily refused to allow me to think. In contrast to my earlier, soggier trip, this time the sun was shining brightly in the early morning sky; it didn't matter, though, for I could not feel its warmth. Nor did I hear the faint noise of birdsong, nor see the bright blue of the sky. Fine as the weather may have been, I was still lost in clouds and rain. I was dimly aware of the weight of my satchel digging into my shoulder, and the curious stares of people I passed by, but the finer aspects of the pleasant morning were wasted on me.

All the focus I possessed was poured into the difficult task of keeping myself from running back the Opera Populaire. For I knew that if I returned, no matter what I did, I would be unhappier still. If I tried to convince him once more, I would fail again, and go through the now-familiar process of leaving once more. If I stayed, I would be unhappier still; perhaps I would be content for a few days, but what of months, years, a lifetime? I would waste away to nothingness in that dreary hole in the ground.

What a horribly fragile, fickle thing the human heart is. I had sworn never to give my heart to any man again, yet how quickly I had fallen under Erik's spell. And now, with so little time to heal, my heart was broken once more. How many times would this cruel cycle continue before I simply gave up, and lived my life as cold and uncaring as the statues on the rooftop?

I ought to have been so happy; I was finally free. My tormentor was dead, his carcass washing up on the shore somewhere. My nightmare was over, my time in purgatory was at an end. I would soon be reunited with a dear friend, and I would be able to live the rest of my life safe in Marseille. But while I was free of Leon, I could never be free of Erik. His face would haunt me as long as I drew breath, of this I was sure. Even now, I could hear his voice singing softly amidst the clatter of shops opening, and feel his touch in the breeze that drifted past me, lifted my hair off my neck and caressing my shoulders.

I prayed that God would take this burden from me, that He would realize I was too weak to carry so much on my own. I prayed he would grant me enough peace to live some kind of life. I would not ask Him to make me capable of love once more, for I knew that was impossible. All I asked was that I might learn to exist in this world without Erik. It ought to have been easier than this; I had only known the man a few weeks, yet now every fiber of my being belonged to him, more than he would ever know.

Even when I reached the train station, the numbness remained. The crowds around me were nothing; just a blur of motion and noise that could not penetrate the fog wrapped around my brain. With an ease born of coldness, I found the platform from which I was to leave Paris forever, and bought my ticket. Standing there, amidst the noise and color of the crowd around me, I felt more alone than I ever had before.

Through the haze of my thoughts, it seemed that the crowd was growing quieter, and laughter was turning to whispers. Many in the motley assortment of travelers seemed to be staring at something in the crowd, but I didn't have the heart left to care what was drawing their curious gazes. The people around me began to shuffle aside, as though clearing way for some one, and a hard elbow in the side from a woman who was trying to move behind me woke me from my delirium, and I turned to see what had created such a stir.

At first, I thought it couldn't be him; this man wasn't dressed in the elaborate evening clothing Erik always wore. He was walking self-consciously, not assuredly like Erik always moved. But the face was his, as was the mask that covered it. The noise of the train pulling up to the tracks, the whistle, the call of the conductor echoed in my ears as I continued to stand bewildered and still, watching the apparition approach.

But ghosts could not touch, and this Erik was pushing the hair out of my face with gentle fingers. And I could feel his warm breath on my forehead when he placed his lips reverently against it. And I could hear his heart beat when he pulled me close, and wrapped his arms around me as though he would never let go.

I heard a voice say his name questioningly, and realized it was mine. I heard him reply, but I didn't know what he was saying. My world consisted of his arms, and and the beat of his heart.

"You changed your mind?" It was a foolish question, but I had to hear him answer it to believe that this was real.

"I did. I was a fool and a coward before, and I must beg your forgiveness."

"There is nothing to forgive."

In that moment, there was no further need for words, and there are no words beautiful enough to describe what I felt, standing on the platform with Erik next to me, ready to face the world together.

* * *

Epilogue

When the stage hands began to light the gaslights at the foot of the stage, I tried to calm the beating of my heart by repeating Remy's words in my mind. She was, after all, generally correct. It had been her idea that I attempt to sell my compositions in the first place. It was Remy who insisted that I approach Monsieur Crèvecoeur at the gathering Monique hosted, though my heart had quickened at the very thought. And it had been Remy who suggested to that same man, the owner of the Opera de Marseille, that an artist's work would be best overseen by the artist himself.

"This is what you were born for, Erik. God has given you this chance, and I know that soon all of Marseille will admire you as I do."

Now, from behind the stage, when I push the curtain aside, I can see her, seated in the very front row, beside her friends-our friends. Her face is lit by the glow that I am told only women with child possess. And while I sometimes fear that our child will be cursed as I was, I still feel I joy that I did not know I could feel whenever I look at my wife's smiling face.

There were still times when the stares of strangers make me feel as though I might crumble, and the whispers of townspeople pierce my heart, but nothing brings courage so much as knowing that there is some one there to share the burden.

I often wonder how many times in those first weeks she felt as hopeless as I did, for she never showed it on her face. If she was ever scared of the thought of being my wife, she never gave a sign of it. There were times at night when she would still dream of her past, and sought my comfort, but during the day, she was the courageous one, the one who never lost sight of what she wanted for us.

Her perseverance would reap its reward tonight, when for the first time in my life, I would be given the opportunity to prove myself to the world, as the writer and director of the opera I had written in her honor.

And now the musicians were warming their instruments, and it was time to begin. I let the curtain fall back into place, secure in the knowledge that after the performance was done, Remy would be waiting for me, with a light in her eyes and a smile on her face. And while the prima donna sang that first aria, I thanked the God I had never before believed in for these gifts I never thought He would grant me.

A/N: And so it ends. I briefly considered following this up with a shorter one chronicling their time in Marseille as a married couple, but a) I don't really have the time and b) I think your imaginations could do as much justice to the rest of their story as mine could. So, I hope you are happy with my happy ending, and feel like I did enough justice to their characters. I also thought that since it was Remy's voice we heard through the rest of the story, it was fitting that Erik be given the chance to end it. Well, thank you to everyone who ever reviewed, especially the people who followed it from chapter to chapter and gave me consistant praise. I never thought I could be a writer until I started writing this (I'm a poli sci major, not an English major), but now, who knows? Maybe I'll try to write my first novel. Hugs and lollipops all around!


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